A little elaboration should not hurt

Well, I should think so for time being.                                  

I first met them in a nearby park on a walk, maybe on a morning, maybe on an evening. Not important for now either way. They were standing by the pond, feeding bread to the swans. Mother Elder – if that really is her name, which in any case is unlikely – wore an emerald green sweater, heeding the weather scarcely more than she would any other time. With her black boater she stood at roughly half a head below me. She smiled at the ground, smiled as she looked up, smiled at the vast space about her without a sign of wanting to cease. Something amusing, perhaps? Shadows moving through the trees? Interesting thought, and yet I have no idea. Father Willow – again, most likely a placeholder for now – was in the exact same outfit he wore at the lunch. He stood slightly taller at the same height as mine, and as he would always do, wore a bit of a smirk. Both wore rectangular glasses, the sorts that call the Industrial Revolution their home era.

Now, no one seems to notice me right away in recent times, and it was, well, a less than ideal time of life, so I decided to sit down on a nearby bench and lose myself in thoughts. Thoughts of more or less everything that would help me escape for once: maybe books, music, the swans, whatever. I sat down for maybe a minute, maybe five, maybe ten… then I saw an elderly woman sitting by me and wearing the nicest smile. The old man I’d presumed to be her husband stood nearby, smirking as usual.

I suppose that things would’ve gone far differently if someone under them had done the same to me earlier: weeks upon weeks of the strangest things had worn me and the family out, and I was alone, lost in fantasies, and more vulnerable than anyone else could be. Well, it didn’t. They said hi. We talked a bit about the weather and the little I knew of the news. Then I let slip that my family just moved due to some private matters. I realised what I’d said a moment later, but they were curious, and so I simply said what I thought wouldn’t hurt. They stayed. They listened. It was, well, nothing like what I’ve said here, long after I started to find out more about people with similar afflictions. But it was nice.

We said our farewells a bit after that, and met again there the next day. We talked about more mundane things – I think that I did try to get them to watch the Tintin movie a few times. Throughout it all I thought of how I’d tell mum and sis about people noticing me for once, but well, I’d talked about mundane things to strangers before, so I didn’t see that much of a problem. I can’t remember them giving their names before last Saturday, but they later gave me an address and told me to visit.

It wouldn’t have to be eldritch beings with ominous goals to do harm; just a sufficiently deranged person with an eye on teenagers. And yet I came. Nice place – bit dusty, but so is my own, so meh. Lots of novels lined up on a few cupboards, mostly from before the seventies. Furniture were as antiquated as anyone would expect them to be, with the inexplicable computer’s somewhat more inexplicable LCD screen being the sole exception. We had tea on every visit. I’m an adolescent male; why the buggery would I have tea with an old couple? But well, there weren’t anyone else, so I went along with everything, and it didn’t hurt that they, well, didn’t hurt.

There’s been too many times where the slightest bit of bad intention on their part would’ve done me a world of hurt, I suppose. I mean, we’ve all seen maybe dozens of people on the blogs engaging in what amount to horror movie clichés (thanks, spellchecker) and dying or maybe worse as the result. At any point throughout the past few months I would’ve presented far too easy a target. And yet they listened instead.

I’m not, of course, saying that blind trust has a trace of wisdom, but they’re here now, they know of what’s been after me, among others, and considering what’s happened so far, not in as convenient a manner as some would like to accuse.

Getting caught in the open after all of this would, of course, be unpleasant, but I think that I’d honestly like having some help on my side – on our side, even. Well, I do hope that that’s what’s happening.

Discovery

So: the sound system played this as I walked in. Would hardly claim to know anything of the field, so let us take a look at what the good Wikipedia has to say. Shall we?

"Lili Marleen" (a.k.a. "Lili Marlene", "Lily Marlene", "Lili Marlène" etc.) is a German love song which became popular during World War II.

Written in 1915 during World War I, the poem was published under the title "Das Lied eines jungen Soldaten auf der Wacht" (German for "The Song of a Young Soldier on Watch") in 1937, and was first recorded by Lale Andersen in 1939 under the title "Das Mädchen unter der Laterne" ("The Girl under the Lantern").

Following Nazi occupation of Yugoslavia, from 1941 Radio Belgrade became Soldatensender Belgrad to entertain German armed forces; the song was played frequently and became popular throughout Europe and the Mediterranean among both Axis and Allied troops.

Interesting thought, no? But of course, a good majority of visitors are more than likely here for reasons pertaining to otherworldly interferences, which I shall elaborate on shortly.

I suppose that there really is no way to express this without making myself appear thoroughly moronic, so I’ll just go ahead and say: they are the old couple. No, that was most definitely not a typo, and yes, I do mean that the elderly pair of neighbours I mentioned a few posts back were, in fact, waiting for me at the lunch place (which was reasonably crowded). And no, it is deeply unlikely that I am insane, at least not much more than I have always been.

                                                                                                                                               

But to reiterate: elderly couple took over my blog and went on to stalk me with regard to the Fears. What.

And yet this was the opportunity I had so long yearned for. It was all too likely to be a trap at first, yes, but also the very thing I’d wanted ever since Dad… well, you know. So I sat down. They’d ordered fish and chips.

I really haven’t practised enough at this, but I guess that I’m supposed to present some sort of transcript for the conversation, so:

“You’re the old couple I met the other day”, I exclaimed, quite reluctant to believe my senses. “We’re the old couple you met the other day”, said the elderly grandmother whom I presumed to be “E.”. She sat by a full plate, her hair tied up in a bun. She was wearing a violet sweater with white leaf pattern and an old nondescript skirt, I think. Her spouse, whom I immediately presumed to be "W.", was in an old leather jacket, tweed hat and worn-out pair of jeans. He had an unopened pack of cigarette by his person.

Scarcely able to remind myself of the implications, my curiosity took over, and soon enough, I was asking questions.

Q: Apology for being rude, but who are the two of you exactly?

E: [smiling] Your neighbours, dear.

W: [also smiling] That means we live near you.

E: That we do. [laughs]

Q: That certainly is quite obvious >_> *, but what do the two of you have to do with, well… them?

E: Well, to be frank, who doesn’t? And yet, it should without a doubt be intriguing that so many would know so much. All I can say for now is that we’re not what one would call terrific with all that Google thing, so no blog for us now.

W: She means that we are informed of them.

E: But then again… wait. [raises palm and sips tea**] lots of people know. For instance, there’s this lovely lady who was apparently an expert on Greek mythology until a few days ago, when… ah, not a useful sort of detail, I’m afraid.

W: We all know of the rest, though. Men and women of all sorts running around with knowledge, poetry, mysterious companions and shotguns, men and women of generally less pleasant sorts running around with symbols, masks, and fancy phrases with capitalised first letters, et cetera, et cetera. Lovely, isn’t it? Oh, hello there Amy. [smirks]

E: [stares] Now, now, people are dying out there.

[beat]                                                                                                                                                                         

W: Sorry. [edges away to nibble on fish and chips]

Q: So… what the two of you are trying to say is that you know quite a bit about the Fears…

W: Most correct.

Q: See, as you just said yourselves, lots of people do. What happens then?

E: [sighs] That’s where most of the problem lies, I’m afraid. You see, mankind occasionally finds it quite a bugger to embrace – no pun intended – the sheer degree of difference between what is known, clear and quantifiable and, well, certain things.

Q: I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure if I understand.

E: Well, don’t be! [pats back] Consider the common human being, maybe the common sufferer even. They grow through the weeks, months and years, they see with their eyes whatever the light shines on, their skin touches the tangible matter to their fore, they live with wants and needs, they came from something, they will probably become something else eventually, and we may assume that they are something at this very moment. Consider also the most ruthless rulers of mankind, and we may add a sizeable number of dead people into each bit.

W: Fortunately, in a manner of speaking, the Fears are hardly the most ruthless rulers of mankind.

Q: No?

E: Well, maybe just about a million times worse. More mustard dear?

Q: Okay… also something I need to discuss. About the clipping the other day…

E: Now, now, I believe that I’ve expressed our concern to you around the time. Lots of people in the know wouldn’t have quite cared, unfortunately – again, the problem lies with understanding. [stares emptily] You see, the current state of matters involves itself with these things from who knows where, going after who knows what by who knows how.

W: There’s been a few inside sources as you mentioned the other day, yes, but it’s not hugely likely that they should prove all that useful in figuring them out. Oh, and more ketchup? You do seem to be terribly fond of it.

E: Yes, yes, yes. *** And even then, all those folks still would not accept it – see, all things that man deals with has to be things that man can define. The distance is in miles, the weight has to be in stones, and the politician’s wealth in the number of oppressed working class men. Not them, you see. Some things are just there, and however hard we wish it sometimes is impossible to get them to do things this way or that way. It was probably a boy of eleven one day, so why should it be an infant on another? Because.

Q: And the exact reason we’ve had to cross paths is…?

E: [sighs] [Journeyman], [Journeyman], [Journeyman] – may I call you that, dear?

Q: Taking everything into account, I see no problem.

E: Well, we do believe that you’ve seen enough – more than enough, some might say. [takes off glasses and wipes on handkerchief]

W: Now, here’s not to say that no one had any idea what happened either back at your old suburb, but your family did move. And, well…

E: We’re here. We know you, you know us, and, well, there are those nice people on the blog that we’ll have to know better. [smiles] It doesn’t have to be an eternity of running, dear. No one would call it easy, but we did figure out that having a few people in the know around would be in everyone’s best interests.

Q: Thank you very much then! Um, what do the acronyms stand for again?

E: [laughs] More of a little joke, really. I, call me Mother Elder.

W: And you can call me Father Willow.

And that is all the important things I can remember for now, I should think.

Mother Elder. Father Willow.

“Under the Willow Tree”.

Strange, I know – hard to find anyone trustworthy enough when every other person is a possible servant. Not to mention taking over the blog – not something that people unfamiliar with Google do all that often, I think. But perhaps my own actions have, well, not quite been the wisest? I know that I’ve been rash and yet panicky and, dammit, far too much of a bloody whiner at times, but I really, really hate to imagine what would’ve probably happened if I’d taken another step into the bookstore without all the knowledge I have now.

I really haven’t been able to describe the whole affair the way I should – my deepest apology. Promise to update some time in the foreseeable future.

Thanks.

* Not a direct quote, IIRC.

** I think that it was a chai latte. This is an essential bit of information.

*** Not sure why this would bring my thought here, but I have so far been quite unable to place their accents.

Off to a fantastic start.

It is February. Why the fuck do I have a cold.

The Reveal

Kept me waiting for quite a while, but I can honestly say that I am quite glad to announce that I found this in my inbox quite recently:

 

So: public meetup, where still no one is likely to express concern but hard evidence and testimony may be taken – and strange as they might have all too often been, there is always the minute chance that E. and W. are, in fact, not malevolent human beings in the service of the Fears.

I am here. I am ready. What I plan to do, I will do out of no will but mine.

Cheero.

Plot Holes and Revelations

Still nothing on the bookstore. Not sure if I’m going back to the place soon. Is it some sort of requirement for all unassuming users of sufficient anonymity on Blogspot to have dark powers peeking around the corner? Fucking hell.

Tripped on some bushes onto a speeding SUV near the school on the other day. It was broad daylight. Nobody batted an eyelid. Thought I saw a dark shape in the bushes, but my mind was sort of occupied with something else. A realisation, to be precise. One which no doubt will exert grave implications a long way into the future, far beyond my worries of today, of loneliness, despair, and otherworldly threats looming over humanity.

I am bored.

Seriously though, I have precisely zero human being on the surface of Jesus/Allah/Yahweh/Buddha/Shiva/Dawkins’s green Earth to which I may rant and babble for hours and hours in private to. There’s E. and the other initial person and the handful of nice people who have left comments (with the exception being the bloke who was happy to see bloggers falling easily; surprise, we’re not). But in retrospect, nicknaming IRL associates after an elderly seaman portrayed by Sean Connery might not have been the best of decisions, with or without the interference of a certain shadowy old man or whatever it is. On that note, the Blind Man is supposed to be associated with books and libraries, if I’m not mistaken? Perhaps an innocuous bookstore would present an ideal base of operation for a certain number of underlings? Will try to discuss the state of matters with my family later; I find the complete lack of Fear-related social services to be quite disappointing considering all the lengths of time they’re supposed to have spent doing Feary things.

As the lack of gruesome deaths is no doubt getting on the readers’ nerves, here is the picture of a puffin to compensate.

The subject of books also brings to mind required reading for students. On one hand, millions and millions of required texts are laid across the world’s libraries and educational facilities, any of which would require scarce effort to present all manners of nastiness: Operator Symbols, Twin Triangles, disease agents, arthropod larvae, antimony dust, maybe some particularly lethal variants of the common mousetrap here and there. On the other hand, with all due consideration to the inherent threat which the very idea of the Fears presents to our perpetually vulnerable world, it appears appalling that the simplest form of information on such an essential subject has been quite completely absent from the aforementioned texts. Ladies and gentlemen, the point I initially attempted to present was most decidedly NOT that we are fucked on both hands, but seeing my complete inability from going on lengthy tangents and the truth of the conclusion, let us go with that one.

Anyway, I vaguely remember doing an analysis/study guide on an obscure poem on the subject of a nineteenth century amnesiac a few months ago. Have I ever mentioned being a distinguished English student? Ergo the entirety of the blog lacking the slightest semblance of comprehensibility. Wonder if that would alter the chances of an elderly, visually-impaired librarian going after someone.

Moving on to yet another point which I originally intended to discuss here – namely the peculiarities surrounding the recent input. I am aware of maybe two or three newspapers which may present such news items in such a manner, which is to include the formatting, and I have so far been unable to find further information on the supposed article. In addition, we may take note of the apparent difference in font sizes between the columns, as well as the “anonymous” source of the image and the general irregularities found within the presentation. But then again, we live in a strange world, stranger than so many of us would prefer to accept. A towering figure in a business suit, a feral form clawing through those deep in sleep, a mother of snakes behind the mirror, all of these we have come to accept as our very own reality. Perhaps, once in a long, dark while, a newspaper clipping is merely warning us all of the truth? Who knows.

In which a major amount of BS is to hopefully have some sense made out of it

Okaaaaaay.

So there’s an individual or group going by the initial – or possibly given name, but eh, who gives a damn anymore – of “E.”. This person is quite well-informed in regards to the Fears, not sure to what extent but certainly quite a bit. This person has also possibly monitored my activities for a while; again, not sure for how long. They, or apparently she, have/has also somehow taken over the blog and demoted me into a contributor, though this is probably more of a matter of tech-savviness and Google deciding that “Don’t be evil” is much less memorable a motto than “Mwahahahaha”.

For what, though?

As far as I know, just bloody near anyone is a potential Fear servant – well, we’ve always known that some are a bit scalier than others, but still – and he/she/it has frankly made a less than ideal impression in that department. But why would E. give the warning then? I mean, I’ve been through a bit of whatever weird shit is afflicting the bookstore, but that more or less disqualifies him/her/it from being an affiliate of the Unnamed Child. Something else, perhaps? Surely there are dozens upon hundreds upon thousands of fears for all men and women on Earth, meaning that the most obvious conclusion (other that we are boned) is that some of them may, well, resort to some sort of obvious yet unexpected deception to lure unsuspecting victims in?

…Gah. I’m a teenager in high school, why are there eldritch horrors after me @_@ I need a freaking yogurt.

And because trying to uncover the truth behind said entities needs not be inherently depressing...

PS: I seem to have stumbled upon a number of servant-run blogs over the past week. Apart from deducing that rampant attention whoring is an essential factor in considering oneself worthy of scaring people for a huge tentacled man with no face, setting up a list would probably help with getting the sods IP tracked or something. Hey, not the worst thing I’ve thought of.

A year of fear

On a warm summer day, he stands under the gentle sunray. In the towering skylines and the low-lying gardens he sees, in the classroom’s scurries and the house’s echoing walls he hears. How some days we all fear what lies in the midst: in the pointing fingers, in the voices raised above unknowing ears and in our shadows engulfing the earth as the day passes by. The world has been a peculiar place; this we all stand witness to. Yet how exactly, and to whom? One February day, he knew for once.

                                                                                                                                      

On a warm summer day, man stands ardent. Meanwhile, the land beyond the horizon lies in wait. Watching, some might say, or merely casting forgetful glances. In the distant centuries we ran through their darkening woods, saw their night looming over our heads, touched the very edge of their reality, and what we came across we made sure to stay the past. So we raised walls of stone, parted the running rivers. We laid down bricks and earthwork and casted shrouds of metals and plastics, so that the earth and the sky and the waters would stand aside for once. We built winding stretches of road and sprawling metropolises so that we could finally say to ourselves: yes, we live in safety now, from whatever lied when the world was an unlit plain.

On a warm summer day, however, we still do hear them from time to time.

The lean moving shadow in the distant trees, the scarcely audible cracks as it glides through, hidden in its towering height and endless reach. This we fear as we do our own as we walk in the midst of strangers.

The sound of things dropping through the calm face of water. We see the ripples, the splash, sometimes what falls away into the unknown depths. We fear that they may forever stay, so much that we may ourselves drown. In the obsessions that arise, at times; below the reflection, at others.

The sounds of the night seeping through the bedroom walls, maybe from the wilderness outside, maybe no more than fear moving across the floor. We feel it still, its feral claws reaching out as we lay dreaming.

The minute figure alone by the street’s dim corners, which some see on a cold day. We walk by deep in thought, neither casting too long a sideways glance nor offering any bit of warmth. We fear its strange whispers, whether of hate or sincere joy.

Some hear them better, the mounting noises drifting by with scarcely a blink drawn. Indeed, it all takes us away at times; it took hold upon him for sure. The world has been strange to some and more so to others, and once in a while, the safety of the house falls victim to the noise. It was his land, his blood, his very being that laid in man’s howling midst. This was more than a man would stand – more than we would stand, in fact. In the end, he ran. Away from the roars within the walls, and beyond the day’s gentle warmth. Hear the unknown sounds, see the sights strange and new. Listen! We hear still in our ears.

The distant howl under a moonlit sky, company to wandering souls, close by in its depth. Does it know of us? Of all we do in the absence of watchful eyes? Fear is wild and runs the deepest in manmade cracks.

The echo of our straying footsteps as we walk through deserted streets. The windows on the walls growing ever darker and the open sky watching the alleys below, these too bring forth fear. That we are lost in a distant lands, as we lose ourselves within the mind at times.

The hanging presence over the graves, its form little less than tangible, its sounds feeble through the unknown air. Fear lingers there, drawing in wandering minds with thoughts of what lies beyond.

The strangers deep in thought, in the halls of books and forgotten memories. We see them marching forth in emptiness, unwavering, uncaring. Do they see? Do we? For sometimes we forget and live ignorant, a fear of the knowledge we fail to grasp.

On a gloomy day without sun, he lies dreaming reality. Of all lovely stories and the very best ones. Of the noises wailing over his head and the sounds reaching out from the dark. Some stand alone on a gloomy day, where the noises hold no power. Why not bring forth stranger sounds, then? Introduce a little bit of joy through the dark cracks we all pass by. One February day he thought. Thoughts turned into ideas, which turned into schemes, which turned into actions. Strangers came and heard, then they built and spread the words. Words of all kinds of things, growing stranger by the passing days.

The crack of wooden joints, bound by lengths upon lengths of old thread. Seizing, maybe strangling, the carved mass we toy with at times. As we smile in calm and laugh with joy, fear comes by and asks: how would we feel in its place?

The silhouettes under the pale white of the lamp. We see the faint depths of darkness, see them racing in the corners of our eyes, quiet in their knowledge of what we fear.  

The distant beating wings of the flock, carried by the wind from the soaring heights – where man’s fear knows no bounds but the infinite reaches of the sky.

The deep hum of the turning wheels deep in running machineries. It’s the sound of change for the world, for all people, and those who cannot help but fear it.

Today it still is growing. Never relenting, never backing down. We hear the sounds climbing still, hear them from the dark recesses. We learn to know, and love, and never again fear.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Happy birthday Owen.

Happy anniversary, everyone.

E.

Vituperations

Just got my laptop connected to a nearby wifi signal this morning, and look at what I found.

I seem to be living within walking distance of yet another eldritch site.

WHEE

HOW FUN

  

Slender Art

Whee, Internet access. I drew this on GIMP over the weekend.

Comments, please?

I seem to have been mistaken for a German speaker

…Must be the accent.

This week’s been quite normal, as far as I can remember. Our prepaid’s running out soon, though, so I’ll try to get across as much as possible in case… well, you know.

The teachers are still putting me in the same work group as the people I mentioned earlier, which I guess is merciful enough. At least compared to, say, having me among the jocks the size of short-faced bears who I’ve more or less never talked to who would probably forget my tangibility at times.I can live with being inconspicuous for now –lots of worse fates waiting out there, if the online accounts are any indication. Have you ever heard of how WWII bomber crew were apparently fatalistic enough to keep their calm while being dragged off burning planes by the howling wind several kilometers up there? I guess that quite a lot of us who aren’t running around following vague symbols are a bit like that for time being. Flak bombardments do little worse than blowing your head off, though; unlike, say, all the “eldritch shit and nonsense” presently lurking in the dark.

Haven’t gone out much, as I said, meaning that most of the interesting stuff has already been mentioned. Something was a bit wrong, though.

I made the bookstore trip that earned me the Agatha Christie collection in the evening, just after school. Public transportation has historically been a bit on the stray-critter-entrails-over-the-back-seats side in my part of the city, so there hasn’t been many means of getting around save for the feet. I came in around five and looked around for a bit. What I thought was a bit, at least. Everyone inside were acting quite normally, considering recent experiences, and when I walked out… well, I can’t say I remember the precise part, but I remember the sky growing darker and the street being awfully quiet: maybe a car passing by every couple of minutes at best, a handful of pedestrians in the distance, and all the windows were either dark or had their blinds/curtains drawn. The sun had a little glimmer of light left in the horizon. I took a look at my phone.Roughly a quarter to eight. Then the battery expired and it died out.

There’s no clear way to describe what happened next, since my attempts at reminiscing still tend to end up being quite fuzzy. But I’ll try.

I remember walking for maybe ten minutes through what I thought was the way home. Everything stayed vague for the whole length of the time. The streets were all exactly as quiet as the previous one, the streetlights gave out unusually paler lows and all things outside their reach were blurry dark, nearing pitch black. After a while I started to feel light-headed, and my legs were taken over by a throbbing ache (I was still carrying the backpack IIRC, though it was bit hard to tell at times). Then I saw a grass field, running around 200 meters along the street. It bordered a few small houses, wide, unlit and more than anything, unkempt. Next to it was an old defunct city garden which maintenance workers maybe visit once a month, its trees growing into strange shapes against the night sky, slightly lit by a few bulbs here and there. It’s supposed to run for quite some distance before it borders an intersection, compelling me to do take the wisest decision and take a path through the grass field.

It was probably half an hour. Or was it an hour? I have no idea. As I walked through the space, the lights grew further and further away on all sides. The sky was too acting strange: it would seem to be pitch black one minute and a pale maroonish hue full of stars on the next. The city stayed blurry and dark all the way through, the lights little more than sickly spots of brightness lining the horizon. Do I still have to say something about feeling like being watched? Yes? ‘Kay. I also felt like I was being watched.

I was on our street roughly five minutes after I got out of the field. It was mostly normal –everything still seemed quite blurry and contrasted, but there were cars speeding by, people walking around. My backpack felt a little bit heavier, though. I tried to ring the bell on the front door, remembered that some critter had gnawed away the wire, and gave a knock. There was the sound of slow unlocking and Sis appeared on the door. Mum was still out in the town. I looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes past eleven. Then I came in and told her everything. She told me to get a rest.

I woke up at six the following morning. Thought to prepare for school, so I unzipped the backpack. Seven novels neatly stacked inside an unmarked paper bag. Didn’t know it could hold that much. Didn’t remember putting anything inside it after I walked away from school either, but meh. Mum asked me if I was okay before running off for work. She was home on the evening and had found some old yarn inside a just-unpacked dufflebag. Then she taught us crocheting.

It was nice. ^_^

Yogurt Man also came. His yogurt is what the world wants, what the world needs.

Cheers.