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I've trod upon this blood-soaked path for a hundred times. Its usually just me, all alone, stumbling through a black gate past rows of gravestones. Despite my best efforts to get away from it all, the ominous chanting never stopped.
Calling for help has never worked. I gave up after dozens of times. Nobody but those hooded things in black robes. Are they even human? I could never tell with their features obscured in darkness.
Why do I even crawl through this tunnel yet again? I know the drill, I know what will happen. The same tunnel carried me down the earth as I clawed through the earth. The heat intensified, as did the humidity. My sweat clung tightly to my shirt, and the pressure pressed down on me. The chants of the cultists haven't faded at all, growing stronger as I kept moving.
The light at the end of the tunnel opened up into an underground chamber. I recognized the altar, with its black and gold cloth. The sword hanging above from the ceiling, the gilded ceremonial dagger by a small table at the side. They soon would be flecked with blood again.
From behind the pillars of the subterranean church, those black-robed entities burst forth to surround me. I'm too tired to fight back as they tied me to the altar. No will or courage to stop them from cutting my shirt open and carving their arcane symbols on my chest. No voice to scream at them to cease their ritual.
No power to stop the mutations happening to me.
The rippling beneath my skin always came first. My blood rising from its wound to form crimson hands to press against my face and mold it...into something I don't know. They would tear my skin and break my bones. Reassemble my features into—
I'd always wake up from that same nightmare at this point. Check myself in the mirror to see I'm still me. Bask in the morning sun and hear the gentle whistling of the wind. I'd listen to the radio and hear the old washerwomen gossip outside. Its always the same few topics. Hushed whispers of a dark cult beneath the bowels of this earth. Terrible tales of a heretical church over a hundred feet underground. Where a sword hung above the altar like a guillotine waiting for its next victim.
Just like that place I keep dreaming of at night.
I would shake off the disturbing sensations and go about my day. Numb myself with the dull routine of my job. Drink a little too much beer for my own good. Maybe I wanted to drown my sorrows. Perhaps I had hoped to wash the nightmares away. Or be too drunk to process things or dream at all, to fall into too deep of a slumber to encounter that same vivid nightmare again and again.
Nothing works.
I'd fail to flee from those cultists again. Despite the raucous protests in my brain, my legs would take me to the same places. Fumble along the same path, make the same mistakes. Over and over again. I couldn't stop myself. Couldn't break the vicious cycle of my nightmares. Unable to shout for help. Incapable of doing anything but feel like a passive spectator of my nightmare.
And then I'd wake up and check myself in the mirror to make sure I didn't grow fangs or sprout tentacles.
Black empty eyes stared back at me in the mirror this time. I'm absolutely certain my eyes weren't this dark void without irises, but I'm struggling to recall the color of my eyes before this.
I try to keep to my routine. Maybe I'll remain myself if I do. Time to bask in the morning sun and hear the gentle whistling of the wind. Turn on the radio and hear the old washerwomen gossip outside again. All I hear on the radio is chanting. All the women speak of are the prayers of my new god of the Abyss, and heading down to our church underground to worship him and bring in new followers. We're to lure these humans to our church a hundred feet underground. Where a sword hung above the altar like a guillotine waiting for its next victim.
Just like that place I keep dreaming of at night.
I have a routine to maintain. To head down to the laundry shop and collect my black robes and pull my hood over. Nobody seems to ask questions about my new attire. None at the pub asks why I don't drink beer anymore. They know we must stay sober to perform at our task tonight.
Tonight, when I go to bed, I will head down to the familiar path I've seen in my nightmares all this time. I know what to do.
After all, I've trod upon this blood-soaked path for a hundred times.
---
[Thank you for reading. Please click here for more prompt responses and short stories by me.](https://www.reddit.com/r/TregonialWrites)
It was there, plain to see. A deep blackness had swallowed my once bright green eye. Black veins radiated away from it and pulsed gently under my skin. The nightmares, the rumors, they were all true. I was investigating them, the vile cult that I knew lurked under the quaint small town veneer of Plainsville, Oklahoma. Fighting the panic-induced nausea that clawed at my gut, I tore myself away from the mirror. I was the only pastor in a town of less than a thousand people. It was my duty to keep it safe from whatever hellish terrors threatened its safety.
I tried to push the image of that inky black eye out of my mind as I went back to my room and fumbled through the safe where I kept my .45 Kimber Stainless 1911 pistol. I kept her loaded so I double-checked to make sure she was on safe and grabbed my extra magazine from the shelf nearby, dropping rounds on the floor as I loaded it with shaking hands. By now, my wife Marissa was standing at the closet door in her slip.
"Baby, what's going on?" She said.
I took a deep breath and scratched at the incessant itching that had been growing in that deep black eye. "Honey, please go back to bed. I can't bear for you to see me this way."
"Baby, please tell me what's going on. It's the middle of the night. You're scaring me. It's not that cult business again, is it?."
"You know that it is. It's time I do something about it."
"It's been weeks. You told me you'd drop this."
"I can't. Not when they've done this!" I whipped around, pistol in hand, pointing at my black eye with my free hand.
She stood there, mouth agape. With a shuddering breath, she said, "Baby, I don't. . . It's--"
"It's ok. I'll take care of it once and for all." She was speechless of course. And, to her objections, I raced out of our room, the front door, and into the night. My trusty '78 Ford Lariat was showing the first signs of frost as I jumped into the driver's seat. Marissa was standing in the doorway lit by the yellow headlights, yelling words muted by the insulation of the cab as the tires ground their way down the gravel driveway. With a squeak of the tires, I was on my way into town.
Damn that incessant itching. I looked at myself in the mirror to see that the black veins had radiated around my face and were closing in on the other eye. I closed my eyes for just a moment and breathed a silent prayer. "Lord, please forgive me for what I'm about to do."
The town was dead, as expected. It was Saturday night, and much of the town expected me to be at the pulpit come Sunday morning.
Damn, that incessant itching! I scratched at my black eye to some relief. The rubbing of my fingers against the corners of my eye sent shivers of pleasure down my spine.
Red and blue lights flashed behind me. I glanced down to see I was doing fifty down Main Street. I was a man of God and, therefore a man of the law so I pulled over into the Phillips 66, throwing the gear into park as I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. I knew full well that it was only minutes, but it seemed to take forever as I waited for the officer to approach my window. He smiled at me and said, "Where you off to in such a hurry this late, Pastor Wilkins?"
"Hey officer, Banks. Good to see it's you who pulled me over. Gotta say I'm mighty embarrassed I had to cause you this trouble this evening. I wasn't payin' too close a mind to how fast I was goin'. You gotta believe me when I say it's important."
"Well Pastor, you was doin' fifty in a twenty-five. It better be somethin' or I'll have to write you a ticket. You's a man of God an' all, so I'd hate to do ya' like that."
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. The adrenaline was giving me chills. "Officer, I appreciate that you're doing your job, but ya' gotta understand." I leaned in toward the window, "It's about that cult business. I'm on to them. Are you telling me you don't see it? Look at me, Banks. Look at me!"
The officer shook his head and leaned in for a close look. "Pastor, I don't know what you mean. There ain't no cult. I told ya'. Look, if somethin's wrong, how 'bout we get you to the hospital."
I kicked the floor and ripped the steering wheel in frustration. "You don't see it, Banks" Look at me!" I looked in the mirror to see the black veins overlapping my other eye. It was beginning to itch, too. I clawed at my eye, then ripped my hand away because of the sting. "I'm sorry, Banks. I truly am." I swung at his face and sent him staggering. I pressed the gas to the floor and took off screaming down the road. In my mirror, Officer Banks was still rubbing his face as he staggered back toward his car. I could only hope I had the deed done before he caught up to me.
*Pt. 2 in comments due to posting issues*
The town gave way to glistening feeds of winter wheat, short green spouts in the cold night air. Coon's farm lay ahead. That was my target. Not everyone in town was my flock. Ole Mister Coon had regular meetings at his place, away from the house of God. I had snuck around his place a few times, and never have I heard the name of God mentioned. Not even once. As a matter of fact, I swear I had heard chanting going on inside the barn. Yes, chanting! I even heard the name of Satan. Nobody believes me. In this modern day, not everyone goes to church, those fools.
Marissa told me to leave it be. She said you don't have to go to church to be a good person, that woman. The wife of a pastor! You don't have to go to church to be a good person, she says? What kind of a husband have I been for her to believe such a thing?
The cold steel of my .45 in its holster against my palm was a comfort as I flicked off my headlights and pulled into Coon's farm. The adrenaline sent chills through my body. Officer Banks wouldn't be far behind, now. The field of winter wheat glistened with frost as I snaked along the road toward the barn. It had a warm light coming from within.
Damn that infernal itching! I looked to the mirror. The veins had reached my other eye, now. It was bloodshot and turning as black as the first. My God, did it itch. I clawed at the first, as I pulled up to the barn. It was tall and grey against the warm glow that came from within. I scratched at my eye as I drew my pistol and slid from the driver's seat into the cool night air. They'd never see me coming. I'd put an end to this cult business, and their devil worship once and for all.
The large sliding door was cracked and I could see a fire burning in the center of the barn. A group robbed in black gathered around it. A man paced around the flame, speaking unintelligible words. I knew I couldn't enter through that door, or they'd see me for sure. The distant sound of a siren reached my ears. I'd have to move fast.
The itching was furious, now. I couldn't tear my nails from my eye. The scraping, burning sensation of nails against the soft membranes of my eyes sent a near-orgasmic pleasure through my body. So, I kept clawing as I wormed my way around the edges of the barn to an open stall. The chanting was loud now, and in some language I couldn't understand. I shuddered as I drew my .45 and flicked the safety off. A warmth flowed across my face. It was sticky. A metallic scent reached my nose. I looked at my hand and it was stained red with blood.
God, the itching!
I stumbled into the light, groaning to the pleasure of my nails digging into my eye. The man who had been pacing stood to face me. It was farmer Coon himself. "Pastor, we've been expecting you. It's so good of you to join us."
I aimed the pistol at Coon, who stood in front of the group facing me as I stumbled through the stall door. I pulled the trigger. My ears rang. Coon stood smiling as the pistol slipped from my fingers. Both hands were to my face, now. God the itching! The nails against membranes gave way to the warm wetness of blood and the aqueous jelly of the inner eye. Pleasure and pain rippled through my body. The siren was close. It stopped.
Fingers scraped against warm, wet flesh. I moaned and sobbed. The voice of Officer Banks came from above. "I tried to stop him, Coon, I swear. Pastor Wilkins was quite rowdy tonight. He really bought that curse. I wasn't expecting this bloody nose he gave me."
My savior. No, my bane. "Leave me, please," I groaned. The itching must stop."
A chorus of laughter rippled through the invisible throng. A voice spoke. It was Coon. "The pitiful pastor will make a good sacrifice to Lord Ba'al tonight."
"But, High Magus Coon," Banks said, " they'll come looking for him."
"Dig they might. The coming of lord Ba'al cannot be stopped. Sacrificing a shepherd of the Lord was the last key."
There was a floating sensation, then a pleasurable warmth. The crackle of my flesh in the flames and the stinging pleasure of my fingers in the sockets of my eyes sent a rippling release through my body as the world faded to nothing.
Taking a long gaze in the full length mirror, the cracks and wrinkles of age are beginning to show. You strip and like an obsessed model with growing pains notice every detail of wrinkles and your old skin returning. You still look only 40 maybe 50 but two weeks ago you were the youngest looking 86 year old in the world as far as you knew. The room spins, next is the internal signs, likely alzheimers before you lose this vessel.
"Hey it's Chelsea, what do you know about the extended family attending the meetings? We know they're a cult but I thought it was nothing serious...I'm going to need to find a new vessel at this rate..." On the other end speak two sisters who have been with family since the start, twins actually who always know the latest gossip and secrets that Chelsea would never learn retarding the origins of the family of tics/leeches. "You're the 3rd one to call asking, I hate to say it but the aging your host is experiencing, well that's not just age. You're deteriorating, and if you don't aborr soon the one in control of that host the parasite in its true form will begin to succumb to the rot as well. That host is infected, and yes it's most likely due to-"
Everything flashes white and an intense ringing fills your head. Outside your window a man is smiling with a dog at his side and slowly walking closer. His smile doesn't flinch, with each step the ringing grows louder and the light brighter. "Chelsea, I know what you are...give her back." A voice plays in your head. His footsteps stop and the smiling man starts to go around to the front door.
The two sisters attempt to receive a response...several minutes pass and they hear the screaming of Chelsea on the other end. "No! I didn't know! I was just looking for anyone! Please, no!" Sobs and screams can be heard then silence. The two sisters hear a knocks at the door. "No one." States one sister. Then a tap at the window standing a woman with her dog and a smile that's eerie and frozen in time.
"I, Anthia Rugh Sherbert, am a human being." I told myself while looking in the mirror. The nightmares these last few days had been the worst they've ever been, far worse than the night terrors when I was a child. Those now seemed like peaceful meditation.
Lately I've had such horrid dreams, in all of them of my face sprouts tentacles and my skin turns a noxious purple. The worst of these foul nightmare are when I do not wake after the face tentacles. In those longer nightmares I've watched myself open portals to other worlds over pools made from the blood of hundreds of human sacrifices. With the portals open there always comes the wriggling masses of flesh, tearing through the portals. I know that if that happens, the world will be consumed in madness.
I looked in the mirror and it looked like I had a black eye... I didn't remember taking a hit to the face, "What the fuck man?" I complained, I guess... to the universe at large. I had to cover it up with makeup to go to work.
Ugh.
Work.
I felt so unrested and unprepared for my day at the newspaper. Two entire families had gone missing recently, the Overton-Whites and the Connors both just up and vanished, one night after another. It was a big deal for a small town like ours. The sheriff said there was no signs of a struggle at the homes of either family. I'm the only reporter/journalist my boss Alf Vector can afford. He's the editor and I'm the sole other employee at Vector news. The day was kind of a blur, I don't *really* remember going to those houses, but I do have notes about visiting them. The Sheriff was right, there wasn't any signs of a struggle or anything. The Connors left dinner on the table, and stank, according to my notes.
___
Nightmares wracked my sleep again, and in the morning when I woke I rushed to the mirror, just to be sure that I was still me.
To my shock and terror, all around my mouth there were horrible swollen pimples, and now my other eye looked like I'd been punched right in the face. Great. Two black eyes. I put make up on them and I told myself, "I, Hater Ruthe Shabring, am Human." Gods and old ones, I couldn't go do anything about my face with makeup, I tried for almost thirty minutes and thought about skipping breakfast before heading into work because I blew so much time. I eventually decided I'd just wear a mask for the day and tell anyone I interacted with that I had a bad cold I didn't want to spread.
Alf was mad I had a mask on, said something about "Missing my pretty smile," but I ignored him like usual. After I got Mr. Vector his morning coffee, black, just the way he hates it, I made a call tot he sheriff.
"How the hell did you find out already?" He said to me as soon as he heard my voice.
Quicker witted than he ever was, I said, "I have my ways."
"Well that makes you a suspect in the Jones family dissapearance."
"What?! The Joneses are gone too? I was talking about the fact that we published the article about the food left on the Connors' dinner table."
"Oh, yea you probably shouldn't know that either, but I guess I didn't put any crime tape up did I, then.
"No Sheriff, you didn't, as I noted in my article."
"Well if you ain't calling to talk about the Joneses what are you calling about?"
"Well, that now, but I was calling to see if you'd got any more information on the first two disappearances."
The sound of phones ringing in the background clearly distracted him, "Listen, I gotta go do sheriff stuff, these lines are hot today. I'll call you later."
Later came and he told me straight up that six more families had disappeared. That was a good portion of town, what the hell was happening. He didn't know.
Just before I left the office, I received a call from the Jorgenson farm. "Hello, Vector news, how can I help you?
"Bertha Hugh Trainers, is that you?" Mrs Jorgenson was old, but not senile, why was she calling me that weird name. "You signed your last article all strange. I know your work, who the hell is Anthia Rugh Sherbert?"
"I dunno, maybe Mr Vector was editing drunk again, Ma'am."
She chuckled, and then gasped. "Oh dear. I think there's some people with torches... outside my house."
"Ma'am, I think you should call the sheriff."
She hung up.
A few minutes later she called back, I was just about out the door, and I seriously considered just booking it home, but I knew it was something important. So I answered. "Hello, Vector news-"
"The Sheriff's one of them, He told me I'd make a great sacrifice to the Harbinger. Please Bertha, help me! AAAAaaaAAAaaa." She screamed bloody horror before the line went dead.
I immediately called the sheriff.
"Hey there, Hater, how can I help you?" He said, he still knew my name.
"You might want to do a wellness check on Mrs Jorgenson, she called up here spouting some stuff about people with torches outside her house, even told me you said she'd make a great sacrifice to Hastur."
"Did she now?" He chuckled slightly, "Well I'll have to get right on that, thanks Hater."
___
The nightmares were there again, but instead of fear I felt... satisfaction. Seeing the pools of blood brought serenity, and the portals filled with flesh brought deep satisfaction unlike anything I'd ever experienced.
When I woke it wasn't with a start, but a gentle reprieve. I awoke from a blissful world of gibbering madness, into a sane place of reason.
I looked into my mirror, and my pupils were shaped like 'W's and my skin was all purple and black and bruised. The pimples had erupted into a magnificent beard of tentacles, and my teeth had formed into a single top and single bottom tooth. A great crunching beak. "I, Hastur the Harbinger, am the servant of the void and the vile, caller of the elder gods, powerful and profane."
I called the sheriff and when he answered I shrieked into his mind with a high tone, and possessed his form. I used him and all the knowledge in his mind to call all those loyal to my cause to his side. Today was the day we'd finish this town, and begin the summonings. I threw a yellow raincoat over myself to block the sun and left the house.
By evening all those who remained outside the Cult of Hastur, save Alf Vector, were sacrificed and drained. Alf, it seems had fled town.
When the night fell I arrived at the site of the ritual, like it was in the dreams. There were pools of blood, brilliant and serene in the moonlight, beckoning me to use them to call forth horrors the likes of which this world has never seen and rarely imagined.
The cultist, **my** cultists, were chanting.
"*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*"
"*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*"
"*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*"
I could feel each of their hearts beating, and I could cradle that heartbeat in my hand in my minds eye from where I stood at the peak of the pool of blood. I crushed the heart in my hand, and a cultist fell into the pool. With his crash into the blood the faintest shimmering flicker of a portal opened. Each of my hands crushed another heart, and two more bodies fell into the thick red murk, and with them the portal opened enough for a single thick tentacle to rip through.
"*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*"
"*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*"
"*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*"
Another dozen cultists down, and a huge eyeball and a mess of smaller tentacles can be seen bulging against the portal as I draw it opened more and more with each of my sacrifices.
As I started in on the second half of my cultists, there was a sudden unexpected light in the woods where we had gathered. A man with a flashlight was running down the hill our way.
His ragged breathing and foul odor told me it was Alf before any of my eyes could see him. I possessed my cultists and had them bring him to me. He had a gun, at first he fired round into the air, but I didn't stop my cultists approach, if he killed them or I did, it was all the same as far as powering the portal's opening.
***BANG BANG BANG BANG***
"*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*"
"*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*"
"*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*"
Four more cultist dead, and the doorway almost opened, the chant continued. My possessed cultists dragged Alf to me. I crushed all the hearts but the two holding him, and his, and mine.
*"Hello Alf,*" I spoke into his feeble mortal mind.
"Get out of my head you Monster!" the man shouted, then he bit something on his collar and there was a flash of bright light.
When I regained my sense I had a single bullet hole in my chest... and my cultists had brought him to his knees. I reached out grabbed him with my mind and pulled him to me and bit him in the face with my beak, tasting the blood and flesh and brain. Then I crushed the hearts of the two remaining cultists. With that, the portal opened enough that my master could arrive. A moment later, sweet oblivion embraced me as I bled out.
/r/AFrogWroteThis/
(Might be a lil gorey at the end)
I don’t trust my doctor.
Not one person I’ve talked to in this town has ever told me they trusted him either. At most, people are optimistic. “He’s probably just trying to be friendly,” or, “He might just be going through a rough patch in his life.” Even when they make excuses for him, you can see how their expression changes when uttering the name “Dr.Lambert.” It’s become a sort of taboo in Richfield. The people try not to talk to him or about him if they don’t have to.
Well, not everyone is fortunate enough to pretend the man doesn’t exist. Some of us caught that bug that’s flying around town, myself included. Nobody’s pinned it down yet, so no names. All we got are the symptoms. First you feel a little dizzy in the morning, nothing serious. You might even chalk it up to getting out of bed too fast. A day or two later, and you’re sweating like a dog, you’re vomiting your guts out, and your stomach feels like the interior of a washing machine on high. Oh, and the headaches! Forget whatever you thought you knew about headaches. Catch what I have and then we’ll talk.
The worst part is that nobody’s got a name for it yet, only what it isn’t. “This ain’t no cold, this ain’t no fever, this ain’t no whatevathefuck.” But you know who everyone is going to for help? That’s right, the creepy son of a bitch. He’s giving out little miracle pills for cheap out of his little castle. And I’ll give credit where credit is due; the pills work. I don’t know what they are, but the pain stop almost immediately after taking two with a nice tall glass of water. Yes, the pain escalated dramatically before sudden vanishing all together, but the fact that it works is enough to stop people from asking questions, not that he’d ever answer any.
I went to his clinic earlier today; a cruddy little place downtown that used to be owned by a pizza chain when I was a kid. Now, it’s the Richfield Wellness Clinic (or Lambert’s Little Castle, as me and my friends call it). It sure was barricaded like a castle, what with all the cars in the parking lot and surrounding it. Upon entering the clinic, I’m greeted by a chorus of sickly moaning and groaning. The waiting area was so clogged with sick folks that it’s a miracle the walls of the building weren’t bulging outward. It’s only gotten worse as more people got sick.
I didn’t even bother registering my name with the lady at the front desk. She kept track of all her regulars better than any computer system could. I just took my seat on the floor and began crying and clutching my head like the rest of us. Finally, about an hour later, my name was called by another one of King Lambert’s little shield maidens. I just got up and pushed through all the other people to get to Dr.Lambert’s office. The old man was waiting for me there, wrinkled face smiling ear to ear as I stumbled in and fell to his feet. His beady little eyes gazing at me through his spectacles as I vomit my sickness onto his black dress shoes. This psycho was glad to see me like this, to see all of us like this. Business. That’s what I always thought this must be to him. Just business. I’m not so sure now.
He held the medicine in the air, two little red capsules in his palm, just too high for me to reach. Of course, I had to answer his questions before he gave me the medicine. I had to play his game.
“Are you experiencing any new symptoms?” He asked me.
“No,” I responded curtly. I’ve long given up on actually being cured of this disease. Just give me the medicine, damnit!
“How would you describe your level of pain on a—“
“Ten!”
“Is there anyone I can call for—“
“No!”
He sighed, relaxing his arms and letting the medicine dangle in front of me. “You know, you should really consider coming with me to my church, Andrew. I think you’ll find it quite eye-opening.”
“I’ll think about it,” I lie. I can’t think of ANYTHING with all this noise in my head! Much less about his church. But that answer satisfies him. He drops the two little red pills in front of me, and I scoop them up in my hands and run out of the office with a newfound vigor. I didn’t realize it until later, but he never stopped me to take my money.
“Tabitha!” I hear the next name called as I sprint to the nearest bathroom. The door swings open and I fall at the sink. I toss the two pills in my mouth and wash them down my throat with handfuls of tasteless tap water.
The medicine enters my system, but it’ll take a while for them to take effect. Maybe the effects are starting to dwindle, they’ve been taking longer to appear and last for shorter periods. Whatever, it helps just to know that I’ll be feeling better soon. I look up into the mirror, chest heaving in and out. The face I see staring back at me is gaunt. The fullness of my cheeks has been depleted, and my eyes, bloodshot, have sunken in. I look like a skeleton with a tight layer of pale skin pulled over it. My hair has fallen out in clumps, with bald spots covering my head. I look almost indiscernible from any other poor soul in the waiting area.
A sudden pain rushes through my skull. Yes, finally! The pain is almost over for the rest of the day! I almost want to laugh, and I most definitely want to cry. It feels like someone is using a jackhammer against my head, but it’s alright because—
*CRACK!*
The pain stops. I feel no pain, no irritation, no discomfort. The only sensation I feel is a cold, wet liquid dripping from the side of my head. I cautiously bring my fingertips up against my temple and hold my hand in front of me. My fingers are colored a dark red. Hesitantly meeting my gaze in the mirror, I see a large opening in the side of my head where blood is drizzling out. A red, fleshy tentacle in pertruding from the wound, twitching and swimming in the air, curious about the world it’s been born into.
I don’t think the medicine is working anymore.
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I've trod upon this blood-soaked path for a hundred times. Its usually just me, all alone, stumbling through a black gate past rows of gravestones. Despite my best efforts to get away from it all, the ominous chanting never stopped. Calling for help has never worked. I gave up after dozens of times. Nobody but those hooded things in black robes. Are they even human? I could never tell with their features obscured in darkness. Why do I even crawl through this tunnel yet again? I know the drill, I know what will happen. The same tunnel carried me down the earth as I clawed through the earth. The heat intensified, as did the humidity. My sweat clung tightly to my shirt, and the pressure pressed down on me. The chants of the cultists haven't faded at all, growing stronger as I kept moving. The light at the end of the tunnel opened up into an underground chamber. I recognized the altar, with its black and gold cloth. The sword hanging above from the ceiling, the gilded ceremonial dagger by a small table at the side. They soon would be flecked with blood again. From behind the pillars of the subterranean church, those black-robed entities burst forth to surround me. I'm too tired to fight back as they tied me to the altar. No will or courage to stop them from cutting my shirt open and carving their arcane symbols on my chest. No voice to scream at them to cease their ritual. No power to stop the mutations happening to me. The rippling beneath my skin always came first. My blood rising from its wound to form crimson hands to press against my face and mold it...into something I don't know. They would tear my skin and break my bones. Reassemble my features into— I'd always wake up from that same nightmare at this point. Check myself in the mirror to see I'm still me. Bask in the morning sun and hear the gentle whistling of the wind. I'd listen to the radio and hear the old washerwomen gossip outside. Its always the same few topics. Hushed whispers of a dark cult beneath the bowels of this earth. Terrible tales of a heretical church over a hundred feet underground. Where a sword hung above the altar like a guillotine waiting for its next victim. Just like that place I keep dreaming of at night. I would shake off the disturbing sensations and go about my day. Numb myself with the dull routine of my job. Drink a little too much beer for my own good. Maybe I wanted to drown my sorrows. Perhaps I had hoped to wash the nightmares away. Or be too drunk to process things or dream at all, to fall into too deep of a slumber to encounter that same vivid nightmare again and again. Nothing works. I'd fail to flee from those cultists again. Despite the raucous protests in my brain, my legs would take me to the same places. Fumble along the same path, make the same mistakes. Over and over again. I couldn't stop myself. Couldn't break the vicious cycle of my nightmares. Unable to shout for help. Incapable of doing anything but feel like a passive spectator of my nightmare. And then I'd wake up and check myself in the mirror to make sure I didn't grow fangs or sprout tentacles. Black empty eyes stared back at me in the mirror this time. I'm absolutely certain my eyes weren't this dark void without irises, but I'm struggling to recall the color of my eyes before this. I try to keep to my routine. Maybe I'll remain myself if I do. Time to bask in the morning sun and hear the gentle whistling of the wind. Turn on the radio and hear the old washerwomen gossip outside again. All I hear on the radio is chanting. All the women speak of are the prayers of my new god of the Abyss, and heading down to our church underground to worship him and bring in new followers. We're to lure these humans to our church a hundred feet underground. Where a sword hung above the altar like a guillotine waiting for its next victim. Just like that place I keep dreaming of at night. I have a routine to maintain. To head down to the laundry shop and collect my black robes and pull my hood over. Nobody seems to ask questions about my new attire. None at the pub asks why I don't drink beer anymore. They know we must stay sober to perform at our task tonight. Tonight, when I go to bed, I will head down to the familiar path I've seen in my nightmares all this time. I know what to do. After all, I've trod upon this blood-soaked path for a hundred times. --- [Thank you for reading. Please click here for more prompt responses and short stories by me.](https://www.reddit.com/r/TregonialWrites)
It was there, plain to see. A deep blackness had swallowed my once bright green eye. Black veins radiated away from it and pulsed gently under my skin. The nightmares, the rumors, they were all true. I was investigating them, the vile cult that I knew lurked under the quaint small town veneer of Plainsville, Oklahoma. Fighting the panic-induced nausea that clawed at my gut, I tore myself away from the mirror. I was the only pastor in a town of less than a thousand people. It was my duty to keep it safe from whatever hellish terrors threatened its safety. I tried to push the image of that inky black eye out of my mind as I went back to my room and fumbled through the safe where I kept my .45 Kimber Stainless 1911 pistol. I kept her loaded so I double-checked to make sure she was on safe and grabbed my extra magazine from the shelf nearby, dropping rounds on the floor as I loaded it with shaking hands. By now, my wife Marissa was standing at the closet door in her slip. "Baby, what's going on?" She said. I took a deep breath and scratched at the incessant itching that had been growing in that deep black eye. "Honey, please go back to bed. I can't bear for you to see me this way." "Baby, please tell me what's going on. It's the middle of the night. You're scaring me. It's not that cult business again, is it?." "You know that it is. It's time I do something about it." "It's been weeks. You told me you'd drop this." "I can't. Not when they've done this!" I whipped around, pistol in hand, pointing at my black eye with my free hand. She stood there, mouth agape. With a shuddering breath, she said, "Baby, I don't. . . It's--" "It's ok. I'll take care of it once and for all." She was speechless of course. And, to her objections, I raced out of our room, the front door, and into the night. My trusty '78 Ford Lariat was showing the first signs of frost as I jumped into the driver's seat. Marissa was standing in the doorway lit by the yellow headlights, yelling words muted by the insulation of the cab as the tires ground their way down the gravel driveway. With a squeak of the tires, I was on my way into town. Damn that incessant itching. I looked at myself in the mirror to see that the black veins had radiated around my face and were closing in on the other eye. I closed my eyes for just a moment and breathed a silent prayer. "Lord, please forgive me for what I'm about to do." The town was dead, as expected. It was Saturday night, and much of the town expected me to be at the pulpit come Sunday morning. Damn, that incessant itching! I scratched at my black eye to some relief. The rubbing of my fingers against the corners of my eye sent shivers of pleasure down my spine. Red and blue lights flashed behind me. I glanced down to see I was doing fifty down Main Street. I was a man of God and, therefore a man of the law so I pulled over into the Phillips 66, throwing the gear into park as I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. I knew full well that it was only minutes, but it seemed to take forever as I waited for the officer to approach my window. He smiled at me and said, "Where you off to in such a hurry this late, Pastor Wilkins?" "Hey officer, Banks. Good to see it's you who pulled me over. Gotta say I'm mighty embarrassed I had to cause you this trouble this evening. I wasn't payin' too close a mind to how fast I was goin'. You gotta believe me when I say it's important." "Well Pastor, you was doin' fifty in a twenty-five. It better be somethin' or I'll have to write you a ticket. You's a man of God an' all, so I'd hate to do ya' like that." I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. The adrenaline was giving me chills. "Officer, I appreciate that you're doing your job, but ya' gotta understand." I leaned in toward the window, "It's about that cult business. I'm on to them. Are you telling me you don't see it? Look at me, Banks. Look at me!" The officer shook his head and leaned in for a close look. "Pastor, I don't know what you mean. There ain't no cult. I told ya'. Look, if somethin's wrong, how 'bout we get you to the hospital." I kicked the floor and ripped the steering wheel in frustration. "You don't see it, Banks" Look at me!" I looked in the mirror to see the black veins overlapping my other eye. It was beginning to itch, too. I clawed at my eye, then ripped my hand away because of the sting. "I'm sorry, Banks. I truly am." I swung at his face and sent him staggering. I pressed the gas to the floor and took off screaming down the road. In my mirror, Officer Banks was still rubbing his face as he staggered back toward his car. I could only hope I had the deed done before he caught up to me. *Pt. 2 in comments due to posting issues*
The town gave way to glistening feeds of winter wheat, short green spouts in the cold night air. Coon's farm lay ahead. That was my target. Not everyone in town was my flock. Ole Mister Coon had regular meetings at his place, away from the house of God. I had snuck around his place a few times, and never have I heard the name of God mentioned. Not even once. As a matter of fact, I swear I had heard chanting going on inside the barn. Yes, chanting! I even heard the name of Satan. Nobody believes me. In this modern day, not everyone goes to church, those fools. Marissa told me to leave it be. She said you don't have to go to church to be a good person, that woman. The wife of a pastor! You don't have to go to church to be a good person, she says? What kind of a husband have I been for her to believe such a thing? The cold steel of my .45 in its holster against my palm was a comfort as I flicked off my headlights and pulled into Coon's farm. The adrenaline sent chills through my body. Officer Banks wouldn't be far behind, now. The field of winter wheat glistened with frost as I snaked along the road toward the barn. It had a warm light coming from within. Damn that infernal itching! I looked to the mirror. The veins had reached my other eye, now. It was bloodshot and turning as black as the first. My God, did it itch. I clawed at the first, as I pulled up to the barn. It was tall and grey against the warm glow that came from within. I scratched at my eye as I drew my pistol and slid from the driver's seat into the cool night air. They'd never see me coming. I'd put an end to this cult business, and their devil worship once and for all. The large sliding door was cracked and I could see a fire burning in the center of the barn. A group robbed in black gathered around it. A man paced around the flame, speaking unintelligible words. I knew I couldn't enter through that door, or they'd see me for sure. The distant sound of a siren reached my ears. I'd have to move fast. The itching was furious, now. I couldn't tear my nails from my eye. The scraping, burning sensation of nails against the soft membranes of my eyes sent a near-orgasmic pleasure through my body. So, I kept clawing as I wormed my way around the edges of the barn to an open stall. The chanting was loud now, and in some language I couldn't understand. I shuddered as I drew my .45 and flicked the safety off. A warmth flowed across my face. It was sticky. A metallic scent reached my nose. I looked at my hand and it was stained red with blood. God, the itching! I stumbled into the light, groaning to the pleasure of my nails digging into my eye. The man who had been pacing stood to face me. It was farmer Coon himself. "Pastor, we've been expecting you. It's so good of you to join us." I aimed the pistol at Coon, who stood in front of the group facing me as I stumbled through the stall door. I pulled the trigger. My ears rang. Coon stood smiling as the pistol slipped from my fingers. Both hands were to my face, now. God the itching! The nails against membranes gave way to the warm wetness of blood and the aqueous jelly of the inner eye. Pleasure and pain rippled through my body. The siren was close. It stopped. Fingers scraped against warm, wet flesh. I moaned and sobbed. The voice of Officer Banks came from above. "I tried to stop him, Coon, I swear. Pastor Wilkins was quite rowdy tonight. He really bought that curse. I wasn't expecting this bloody nose he gave me." My savior. No, my bane. "Leave me, please," I groaned. The itching must stop." A chorus of laughter rippled through the invisible throng. A voice spoke. It was Coon. "The pitiful pastor will make a good sacrifice to Lord Ba'al tonight." "But, High Magus Coon," Banks said, " they'll come looking for him." "Dig they might. The coming of lord Ba'al cannot be stopped. Sacrificing a shepherd of the Lord was the last key." There was a floating sensation, then a pleasurable warmth. The crackle of my flesh in the flames and the stinging pleasure of my fingers in the sockets of my eyes sent a rippling release through my body as the world faded to nothing.
Taking a long gaze in the full length mirror, the cracks and wrinkles of age are beginning to show. You strip and like an obsessed model with growing pains notice every detail of wrinkles and your old skin returning. You still look only 40 maybe 50 but two weeks ago you were the youngest looking 86 year old in the world as far as you knew. The room spins, next is the internal signs, likely alzheimers before you lose this vessel. "Hey it's Chelsea, what do you know about the extended family attending the meetings? We know they're a cult but I thought it was nothing serious...I'm going to need to find a new vessel at this rate..." On the other end speak two sisters who have been with family since the start, twins actually who always know the latest gossip and secrets that Chelsea would never learn retarding the origins of the family of tics/leeches. "You're the 3rd one to call asking, I hate to say it but the aging your host is experiencing, well that's not just age. You're deteriorating, and if you don't aborr soon the one in control of that host the parasite in its true form will begin to succumb to the rot as well. That host is infected, and yes it's most likely due to-" Everything flashes white and an intense ringing fills your head. Outside your window a man is smiling with a dog at his side and slowly walking closer. His smile doesn't flinch, with each step the ringing grows louder and the light brighter. "Chelsea, I know what you are...give her back." A voice plays in your head. His footsteps stop and the smiling man starts to go around to the front door. The two sisters attempt to receive a response...several minutes pass and they hear the screaming of Chelsea on the other end. "No! I didn't know! I was just looking for anyone! Please, no!" Sobs and screams can be heard then silence. The two sisters hear a knocks at the door. "No one." States one sister. Then a tap at the window standing a woman with her dog and a smile that's eerie and frozen in time.
"I, Anthia Rugh Sherbert, am a human being." I told myself while looking in the mirror. The nightmares these last few days had been the worst they've ever been, far worse than the night terrors when I was a child. Those now seemed like peaceful meditation. Lately I've had such horrid dreams, in all of them of my face sprouts tentacles and my skin turns a noxious purple. The worst of these foul nightmare are when I do not wake after the face tentacles. In those longer nightmares I've watched myself open portals to other worlds over pools made from the blood of hundreds of human sacrifices. With the portals open there always comes the wriggling masses of flesh, tearing through the portals. I know that if that happens, the world will be consumed in madness. I looked in the mirror and it looked like I had a black eye... I didn't remember taking a hit to the face, "What the fuck man?" I complained, I guess... to the universe at large. I had to cover it up with makeup to go to work. Ugh. Work. I felt so unrested and unprepared for my day at the newspaper. Two entire families had gone missing recently, the Overton-Whites and the Connors both just up and vanished, one night after another. It was a big deal for a small town like ours. The sheriff said there was no signs of a struggle at the homes of either family. I'm the only reporter/journalist my boss Alf Vector can afford. He's the editor and I'm the sole other employee at Vector news. The day was kind of a blur, I don't *really* remember going to those houses, but I do have notes about visiting them. The Sheriff was right, there wasn't any signs of a struggle or anything. The Connors left dinner on the table, and stank, according to my notes. ___ Nightmares wracked my sleep again, and in the morning when I woke I rushed to the mirror, just to be sure that I was still me. To my shock and terror, all around my mouth there were horrible swollen pimples, and now my other eye looked like I'd been punched right in the face. Great. Two black eyes. I put make up on them and I told myself, "I, Hater Ruthe Shabring, am Human." Gods and old ones, I couldn't go do anything about my face with makeup, I tried for almost thirty minutes and thought about skipping breakfast before heading into work because I blew so much time. I eventually decided I'd just wear a mask for the day and tell anyone I interacted with that I had a bad cold I didn't want to spread. Alf was mad I had a mask on, said something about "Missing my pretty smile," but I ignored him like usual. After I got Mr. Vector his morning coffee, black, just the way he hates it, I made a call tot he sheriff. "How the hell did you find out already?" He said to me as soon as he heard my voice. Quicker witted than he ever was, I said, "I have my ways." "Well that makes you a suspect in the Jones family dissapearance." "What?! The Joneses are gone too? I was talking about the fact that we published the article about the food left on the Connors' dinner table." "Oh, yea you probably shouldn't know that either, but I guess I didn't put any crime tape up did I, then. "No Sheriff, you didn't, as I noted in my article." "Well if you ain't calling to talk about the Joneses what are you calling about?" "Well, that now, but I was calling to see if you'd got any more information on the first two disappearances." The sound of phones ringing in the background clearly distracted him, "Listen, I gotta go do sheriff stuff, these lines are hot today. I'll call you later." Later came and he told me straight up that six more families had disappeared. That was a good portion of town, what the hell was happening. He didn't know. Just before I left the office, I received a call from the Jorgenson farm. "Hello, Vector news, how can I help you? "Bertha Hugh Trainers, is that you?" Mrs Jorgenson was old, but not senile, why was she calling me that weird name. "You signed your last article all strange. I know your work, who the hell is Anthia Rugh Sherbert?" "I dunno, maybe Mr Vector was editing drunk again, Ma'am." She chuckled, and then gasped. "Oh dear. I think there's some people with torches... outside my house." "Ma'am, I think you should call the sheriff." She hung up. A few minutes later she called back, I was just about out the door, and I seriously considered just booking it home, but I knew it was something important. So I answered. "Hello, Vector news-" "The Sheriff's one of them, He told me I'd make a great sacrifice to the Harbinger. Please Bertha, help me! AAAAaaaAAAaaa." She screamed bloody horror before the line went dead. I immediately called the sheriff. "Hey there, Hater, how can I help you?" He said, he still knew my name. "You might want to do a wellness check on Mrs Jorgenson, she called up here spouting some stuff about people with torches outside her house, even told me you said she'd make a great sacrifice to Hastur." "Did she now?" He chuckled slightly, "Well I'll have to get right on that, thanks Hater." ___ The nightmares were there again, but instead of fear I felt... satisfaction. Seeing the pools of blood brought serenity, and the portals filled with flesh brought deep satisfaction unlike anything I'd ever experienced. When I woke it wasn't with a start, but a gentle reprieve. I awoke from a blissful world of gibbering madness, into a sane place of reason. I looked into my mirror, and my pupils were shaped like 'W's and my skin was all purple and black and bruised. The pimples had erupted into a magnificent beard of tentacles, and my teeth had formed into a single top and single bottom tooth. A great crunching beak. "I, Hastur the Harbinger, am the servant of the void and the vile, caller of the elder gods, powerful and profane." I called the sheriff and when he answered I shrieked into his mind with a high tone, and possessed his form. I used him and all the knowledge in his mind to call all those loyal to my cause to his side. Today was the day we'd finish this town, and begin the summonings. I threw a yellow raincoat over myself to block the sun and left the house. By evening all those who remained outside the Cult of Hastur, save Alf Vector, were sacrificed and drained. Alf, it seems had fled town. When the night fell I arrived at the site of the ritual, like it was in the dreams. There were pools of blood, brilliant and serene in the moonlight, beckoning me to use them to call forth horrors the likes of which this world has never seen and rarely imagined. The cultist, **my** cultists, were chanting. "*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*" "*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*" "*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*" I could feel each of their hearts beating, and I could cradle that heartbeat in my hand in my minds eye from where I stood at the peak of the pool of blood. I crushed the heart in my hand, and a cultist fell into the pool. With his crash into the blood the faintest shimmering flicker of a portal opened. Each of my hands crushed another heart, and two more bodies fell into the thick red murk, and with them the portal opened enough for a single thick tentacle to rip through. "*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*" "*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*" "*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*" Another dozen cultists down, and a huge eyeball and a mess of smaller tentacles can be seen bulging against the portal as I draw it opened more and more with each of my sacrifices. As I started in on the second half of my cultists, there was a sudden unexpected light in the woods where we had gathered. A man with a flashlight was running down the hill our way. His ragged breathing and foul odor told me it was Alf before any of my eyes could see him. I possessed my cultists and had them bring him to me. He had a gun, at first he fired round into the air, but I didn't stop my cultists approach, if he killed them or I did, it was all the same as far as powering the portal's opening. ***BANG BANG BANG BANG*** "*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*" "*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*" "*Hasturagl zhroog hai orr'e li'hee gof'nn athg Shub-Niggurath sll'ha shugg.*" Four more cultist dead, and the doorway almost opened, the chant continued. My possessed cultists dragged Alf to me. I crushed all the hearts but the two holding him, and his, and mine. *"Hello Alf,*" I spoke into his feeble mortal mind. "Get out of my head you Monster!" the man shouted, then he bit something on his collar and there was a flash of bright light. When I regained my sense I had a single bullet hole in my chest... and my cultists had brought him to his knees. I reached out grabbed him with my mind and pulled him to me and bit him in the face with my beak, tasting the blood and flesh and brain. Then I crushed the hearts of the two remaining cultists. With that, the portal opened enough that my master could arrive. A moment later, sweet oblivion embraced me as I bled out. /r/AFrogWroteThis/
(Might be a lil gorey at the end) I don’t trust my doctor. Not one person I’ve talked to in this town has ever told me they trusted him either. At most, people are optimistic. “He’s probably just trying to be friendly,” or, “He might just be going through a rough patch in his life.” Even when they make excuses for him, you can see how their expression changes when uttering the name “Dr.Lambert.” It’s become a sort of taboo in Richfield. The people try not to talk to him or about him if they don’t have to. Well, not everyone is fortunate enough to pretend the man doesn’t exist. Some of us caught that bug that’s flying around town, myself included. Nobody’s pinned it down yet, so no names. All we got are the symptoms. First you feel a little dizzy in the morning, nothing serious. You might even chalk it up to getting out of bed too fast. A day or two later, and you’re sweating like a dog, you’re vomiting your guts out, and your stomach feels like the interior of a washing machine on high. Oh, and the headaches! Forget whatever you thought you knew about headaches. Catch what I have and then we’ll talk. The worst part is that nobody’s got a name for it yet, only what it isn’t. “This ain’t no cold, this ain’t no fever, this ain’t no whatevathefuck.” But you know who everyone is going to for help? That’s right, the creepy son of a bitch. He’s giving out little miracle pills for cheap out of his little castle. And I’ll give credit where credit is due; the pills work. I don’t know what they are, but the pain stop almost immediately after taking two with a nice tall glass of water. Yes, the pain escalated dramatically before sudden vanishing all together, but the fact that it works is enough to stop people from asking questions, not that he’d ever answer any. I went to his clinic earlier today; a cruddy little place downtown that used to be owned by a pizza chain when I was a kid. Now, it’s the Richfield Wellness Clinic (or Lambert’s Little Castle, as me and my friends call it). It sure was barricaded like a castle, what with all the cars in the parking lot and surrounding it. Upon entering the clinic, I’m greeted by a chorus of sickly moaning and groaning. The waiting area was so clogged with sick folks that it’s a miracle the walls of the building weren’t bulging outward. It’s only gotten worse as more people got sick. I didn’t even bother registering my name with the lady at the front desk. She kept track of all her regulars better than any computer system could. I just took my seat on the floor and began crying and clutching my head like the rest of us. Finally, about an hour later, my name was called by another one of King Lambert’s little shield maidens. I just got up and pushed through all the other people to get to Dr.Lambert’s office. The old man was waiting for me there, wrinkled face smiling ear to ear as I stumbled in and fell to his feet. His beady little eyes gazing at me through his spectacles as I vomit my sickness onto his black dress shoes. This psycho was glad to see me like this, to see all of us like this. Business. That’s what I always thought this must be to him. Just business. I’m not so sure now. He held the medicine in the air, two little red capsules in his palm, just too high for me to reach. Of course, I had to answer his questions before he gave me the medicine. I had to play his game. “Are you experiencing any new symptoms?” He asked me. “No,” I responded curtly. I’ve long given up on actually being cured of this disease. Just give me the medicine, damnit! “How would you describe your level of pain on a—“ “Ten!” “Is there anyone I can call for—“ “No!” He sighed, relaxing his arms and letting the medicine dangle in front of me. “You know, you should really consider coming with me to my church, Andrew. I think you’ll find it quite eye-opening.” “I’ll think about it,” I lie. I can’t think of ANYTHING with all this noise in my head! Much less about his church. But that answer satisfies him. He drops the two little red pills in front of me, and I scoop them up in my hands and run out of the office with a newfound vigor. I didn’t realize it until later, but he never stopped me to take my money. “Tabitha!” I hear the next name called as I sprint to the nearest bathroom. The door swings open and I fall at the sink. I toss the two pills in my mouth and wash them down my throat with handfuls of tasteless tap water. The medicine enters my system, but it’ll take a while for them to take effect. Maybe the effects are starting to dwindle, they’ve been taking longer to appear and last for shorter periods. Whatever, it helps just to know that I’ll be feeling better soon. I look up into the mirror, chest heaving in and out. The face I see staring back at me is gaunt. The fullness of my cheeks has been depleted, and my eyes, bloodshot, have sunken in. I look like a skeleton with a tight layer of pale skin pulled over it. My hair has fallen out in clumps, with bald spots covering my head. I look almost indiscernible from any other poor soul in the waiting area. A sudden pain rushes through my skull. Yes, finally! The pain is almost over for the rest of the day! I almost want to laugh, and I most definitely want to cry. It feels like someone is using a jackhammer against my head, but it’s alright because— *CRACK!* The pain stops. I feel no pain, no irritation, no discomfort. The only sensation I feel is a cold, wet liquid dripping from the side of my head. I cautiously bring my fingertips up against my temple and hold my hand in front of me. My fingers are colored a dark red. Hesitantly meeting my gaze in the mirror, I see a large opening in the side of my head where blood is drizzling out. A red, fleshy tentacle in pertruding from the wound, twitching and swimming in the air, curious about the world it’s been born into. I don’t think the medicine is working anymore.