[Warning: the following text is a fictional work that contains disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised.]
“A full moon is an opened home to the pack of wolves. They might gather and surround a victim, but men are hiding in their shadows.”
Octal Movott – The Aphrotic Epistolae
13 October 1855 – Letter 1
Today I buried my wife.
After a long struggle with her disease, she finally gave up and accepted it. She was calm in these final moments – a calmness that even the graves sing. A coagulated fog surrounded the people gathered at the ceremony and a scent of crude and warm epileptic mud – rose in the distressed afternoon air.
My eyes were fixed on the blackened cedar casket that was gently descending into the fearful storm of afflicted soil. Flashes of a pale portrait – smiling with a paraplegic expression towards the cascading sun…
I couldn’t accept it. Wanted it.. but couldn’t. Seeing her sad eyes made my mind turn around. That is probably why I did it. The reason I killed the rest of them. Probably if I go over this again – it might make more sense – and again – it might not.
The moon was watching from up above, as the workers gathered their tools in silence. The woods were showered with a bluish Chrysocolla nuance, as if angels from above flew over their heads and tiny fragments of spores from their wings decided to form a cloud of aerial fantasy – to delight their visions.
The blue dust and the blackness of the trees were painted in such contrast, that anyone who would land their eyes on this framed mural would think that it is an unnatural and rare phenomenon. This would happen only in the early autumn nights.
Too many of them caught the fatigued men in these soundless forests… but work was getting harder and demands were increasing so, them – with their faithful tools – were breathing Chrysocolla spores while wondering what mystifying explanation might be hidden behind the magical spectacle.
Nobody would say a word – too tired or too uninterested in sharing thoughts or any sort of sentence sculpted in the voice inflection. But once in a while – somebody would interrupt the silence and speak.
– All the axes gathered? said a tall man with a orange light emanating from his short and almost-burnt cigar, hanging from his left corner of his oblique mouth.
– Ye’ all gather’d. Counted ’em me self. Said a young boy that looked not even 17 with his large greenish coat and patched brown hat.
– Can’t see the crosscut… added the man while raising his head above the collection of rusty, convulsing metals.
– It’s in ‘ere.. below them hammers and them other saws.. It’s in ‘ere.. replied the boy.
The man sighed as he gently patted the boy’s shoulder. He thought that this work might be too hard for the young lad who just recently lost both his parents. But he was his nephew and he had to care of him. Anyways – being bathed in the Chrysocolla spores was a just distraction for the boy’s trembling mind – too early tried by the existence’s sick paradoxes.
They were eight fellas in a two horse-driven cart – with almost 100 kilos of metal clanging with a inanimate, deep voice besides them and four oil-lamps with yellow glass, flickering as the cart was floating towards Thurmond.
It has been a long day and tomorrow was Sunday, so they could catch-up on some sleep and their Sunday routines – church, a game of poker, breaking bottles in Cindy’s saloon, reading old newspapers or shooting down arrows from the Castle’s bridge.
Thurmond – a little town in West Virginia that seems sewn into existence by a group of travelers from god-forsaken lands was now house to Thomas Caldwell and his nephew Deric Patment. An inquiring destiny brought them together in this place – where Deric learned that his remaining days will be on his own – trapped into a tornado of unknown faces and intentions – with just his uncle being familiar but not close enough, to assure him a certain degree of comfort.
Deric was a silent boy – he could read and write but with clockwork’s ambition – slowly and clearly clinical. His job as wood-chopper aide wasn’t suited for him since his fragile body had to endure weights beyond his own. Yet – being in the heart of mother-nature was his only caress. He hated staying indoors or doing kitchen-work or delivery like some lads of his age – so with determination – he thought that he will surpass even the most difficult of times.
Sunday in Thurmond was like the repetitive advertising notices on the wooden walls of the town’s outskirts.. 20 or 30 raw-paper posters with the same ecclesiastical drawing and maneuvered message announcing the 5th edition of Thurmond Coal Festival. A three-day event in which everyone would gather and talk about the work done throughout the year, in the mines below their dusty town, they would drink beer from Coldman’s brewing workroom and listen to Betty Bopette’s latest songs – engaging in vivid and ferocious western-dances.
Deric was standing near the church’s gates observing two lizards with caramelized coats trying to bite each other with toothless tiny mouths.
People were silently walking down the footpath to the church. The sun was sending blazes of warmth towards the dusty street. A fictional wind swept away a dried bush from the middle of the thirsty road. It was silence. Too silent..
Minute after minute the silence grew and dreamt another wave of quiescence – until a grave scream, coming from volcanic lungs made Deric jump into his feet – frantically looking around him. He smelled smoke and something that he couldn’t describe but made his stomach dithered.
People from town ran towards him – towards the church where apparently the distorted smells were coming from. Deric was greeted by the sight of his uncle, running along other men towards him and into the church’s front yard. Eric followed.. sneaking past the brutes that made a human chain in front of him.
He froze as he saw the incarnation of evil boiling in front of him in chasm flames. He knew what the smell gauging his stomach’s eyes was provoked by…
All the people from church were nailed or bolted unto metal platforms of visceral forms as they were engulfed in flames bearing the same blue chromosomal nuance that delighted his sight only hours before. They were all still alive but the agony on their faces wrote down martyrical chants. They were screaming and screaming, trying to move their mutilated bodies in a poor attempt to save themselves.
How this could’ve happened? How this grotesque display of demented death was born without no-one noticing anything wrong? What force was involved into torturing these poor souls?
Deric took a step back and blood started to slowly drain from his eyes. As the fading voice of his uncle stated his name – he felt his body weightless, his arms and legs became numb and he fell onto his back…
Above – he saw an unclear image of a giant butterfly-shaped entity, with a deformed human face, bearing large wings with blue scales.
[to be continued…]