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.

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.