I am to understand that they believe me to be insane, but I have my reasons for my deception. I have my memories, terrible memories, and I have finally resolved to properly relate the series of events that have led to my interment in the mental ward of the hospital in Arkham. I am, or was, a writer by trade, and regardless, have little else to do.
I had reached a point in my career where I had a tidy sum of money, no pressing financial obligations, and need of a new residence, preferably away from my life long home of Boston.
I loved Boston, but wished to experience the quiet of the countryside that so many of my peers had contributed to their most inspired works. I eventually settled on a small cottage by virtue of both an unbelievably low asking price, and it's almost complete isolation from the bluster and noise of the city life that I had lived with most of my life. The realtor, a small, ugly man with bulging eyes, had neglected to give me any sort of history on my new abode, the reasons of which are now readily apparent to me.
I first had the dream two days after moving to my new home.
In it, I was approaching a vast church, surrounded by a dense and dark forest. The church radiated an distinct aura of menace. Despite all efforts, my feet moved me inexorably towards the front doors. As I entered the vestibule, seeing the place lit with torches set in brackets. Further into the church, the pews were removed, replaced with robed figures, their faces hidden by hoods, while in front of me, a huge robed figure with it's back to me whispered passages read from a huge tome opened on the alter. For some reason the book, rather then the figure, became the chief fixture of my rapidly growing fear.
As the figure continued it's litany, my fear increased to an almost unbearable pitch, finally culminating in a scream as the hooded figure turned to me, revealing the fleshless face of a Lich. As the hideous apparition approached me, I was finally able to wrench myself from sleep and back to the waking world.
It had taken many hours and more than a few stiff drinks before I had properly regained my composure and attempted sleep again. Thankfully, my rest was undisturbed for the remainder of the night.
Much to my despair, this was not the last I would see of this dream, as it became an reoccurring and much maligned fixture every time I tried to sleep at night. No matter what measures I took to ensure a restful night of sleep, the dream, and the abject terror it inspired, was there to plague me. After almost half a month of this, I was unable to write, and finally took my motorcar into the town to try and find out the history of the house that seemed to have spawned the source of my dilemma.
I first attempted to locate the realtor, only to find his business boarded up. Upon questioning the neighboring shop owners, I was told that the realtor had closed up shop the previous week, and had quickly left town, leaving no address. Only one reluctant shop-owner's wife would tell me how relieved they were: "That queer man has gone up and missing. Don't know ware he went, and don't care. And neither should you."
I attempted to extract further information from her by sharing some details of my problem and was told "If he sold you that house, I'm not surprised. Should move out right away, I would if I was you." And that's all she had to say on the matter.
Soon after, I was approached by a disheveled and rail thin man who introduced himself as Downs. He had apparently heard that I was looking for information about my house and was perfectly willing to tell me all he knew, provided I wet his whistle at the local tavern. He led me to a table in the back, ignoring the dirty look from the bartender, and I ordered him a drink. After taking a big swig, he started talking.
"So, you moved into that old cottage out by North way, eh? And you've been having a bit of a scare?" He laughed at the look on my face. "Hah, I know it by reputation. You see, that area has a bit of history, and the fine folk of this town would rather forget it, but it's still there. When I was a young lad, A man from out of town bought a great parcel of land out that way. Alzerez, I believe his name was. Not many people saw him, and most folks thought he was some sort of rich loony. That man built that cottage you've moved into. He also built a church nearby. Church for what? Certainly not for the worship of any sort of decent God, I'll tell you that."
He stopped to take a drink and then peered at my face. "You've seen the church, then?"
I shook my head. "Not exactly, no."
"Well, it ain't too far, if memory serves. Right in the middle of the forest, queerest place to put a church, but as I said before, that man Alzerez didn't build it for any God we know of. People used to hear odd chanting at night, things like that. Hunters started finding mutilated animals in the woods around certain times of the year. The worse was that a couple kids went missin'. Plucked from their yard as they played. They searched the woods, but Alzerez refused to let them search the church grounds. All they ever found of those kids was a scrap of cloth stuck to a branch half a mile out of town. People started talking. Place started getting a reputation, you see?
Now Alzerez, he would get supplies from the local grocery sent to his cottage once a week on the dot.That's really the only sort of business he'd have with the town, or the town would have with him, for that matter. One day, abouts October, the man who delivers the groceries finds the food he left from last week still sitting where he left it from the week before. A little worse for wear, mind you, with animals and the weather, and so he calls the local constabulary. They break into the place and do you know what they find?"
At this, Downs had lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Not Alzerez, but all sorts of signs that people have been all about. Queer sorts of drawings on the walls, along with writing that no-one, not even those eggheads at the college, could figure out. All sorts of books and papers in the same unknown language. The cellar was all dug up, and they found some sort of tunnel that had collapsed. It was going in the direction of the church, so they went there next. The church was empty too, with the same sorts of drawings and writings everywhere. They found the end of the collapsed tunnel in the basement of the church. The only thing they could find to indicate where Alverez or any of his followers went was a half finished letter in the church's study. Said something about "The book has been found" and "Praise the great elder ones" Utter rubbish, in other words."
"How exactly did you come about this information?" I asked.
"Oh, me dad was part of both search parties. He told my mother and me and my brother listened from the stairs. He said both places had a sort of creepy feeling to them, and he was glad when they were done. Later, the police came to the conclusion that Alzerez and his cronies dug a secret tunnel to the church for reasons unknown, and the damn thing collapsed on them. No one really cared to try and dig them up, and they couldn't find no next of kin, so the property was for the most part abandoned. Till some fella bought the house, cleaned it up, and put it on the market. No one around here would buy it, on account of it's reputation, so it was empty till you showed up."
"Why are you the only one who was willing to tell me this?"
"Oh, I'm just a concerned citizen, that's all. And I got a drink outta it, didn't I?"
Downs swigged down the last of his drink, and looked around again before looking me square in the eye. "But if you're having some sort of trouble out there, my advice to you would be to pack your bags and leave. Just leave. That place is bad, and you'd be better off getting away before something happens."
With that, Downs stood up and left the tavern, leaving me slightly aghast. It was my belief at the time that I had been the butt of some sort of joke, obviously aimed at outsiders. I resolved to explore the validity of Down's claims, starting with my own cellar.
The cellar of the cottage was accessed by means of a outside pair of doors. Although the padlock securing the doors was hefty, and I lacking the key, a few swift blows of a large stone were enough to knock it loose. I quickly descended into the basement with a lantern at hand. The floor, although still dirt, was smooth and oiled, giving no indication of disturbance, past or present. Casting my lantern around, I looked for signs of the collapsed tunnel. Along the west wall, I found a section of brick and mortar of a discernibly different color roughly the height of the the rest of the wall and four feet in width. My blood went cold at the sight of it, although I was still under the impression that a joke was being played on me. Still, the dreams. Those loathsome, damnable dreams! What did they mean? Did they have something to do with this missing cultist Alzerez? I believe I now know the answers, but learned them at great cost.
When I left the basement, I found a stout length of wood to secure under the cellar door's handles, which set my mind at ease for the time being. Seeing that there was plenty of daytime left, I decided to take a walk west into the forest, to see this church. Perhaps more could be found there, if it truly existed.
The Church loomed thorough the trees. It was indeed a reality, and when I first had a clear view of it, I swooned from the fear blooming in my chest. It was indisputably the church from my nightmare, and seeing it in the day inspired no less terror, for if this was the church from my dreams, what might be inside?
I fully confess I lacked the courage to even try to approach it, and made to take a hasty retreat.
But much to my horror, my feet seemed to have plans of their own. They carried me, a passenger in my own body, to the huge doors of the church. My now equally uncooperative hands pushed them, and with a piecing shriek, the doors opened. I tried to close my eyes, but to now avail.
The vestibule was dark, and smelled of mildew and rotting paper. Underneath that miasma was a deeper, more sinister stench that my mind refused to identify. I was afforded that one relief.
My shuffling feet propelled me deeper into that wretched place, into the chapel itself, where the pews lay strewn in disarray, and a thick layer of dust coated everything. The long windows were shuttered, and although sunlight shown through several holes in the roof, it did little to disperse the preternatural darkness of the chapel's interior. My unyielding legs continued to propel me toward the large alter I already knew would be there. If I believed my terror to be reaching it's peak at that time, I was mistaken. For I saw that what lay upon that alter was
that damnable book from my dream! I felt my mind try to squirm away like a beetle but there was no refuge. My hand opened the book and my eyes were forced to behold it's vile contents. A voice began intoning in my head, a voice, buzzing and ancient, and certainly not human. I dare not repeat what it said, nor could I if I tried, for it spoke in some alien language. Horrible images appeared in my head, of grotesque worlds and nameless voids where immense beings with unspeakable forms reigned supreme, worshiped by countless lesser beings.
I'm not sure how long this cacophony lasted, only that when the very last strand of my sanity was threatening to snap, I was finally granted the release of unconsciousness.
I awoke in the dooryard of the church. The sun was falling rapidly to the west. My body was under my control again and so I made haste back to the relative refuge of the cottage, and didn't give a single glance behind myself all the way back.
I refused to sleep that night, and elected instead to spend the night reading in my room, all doors quite secured. As the hours passed, my eyes grew heavy, but I forced myself to stay awake. Were those scratching noises coming from the basement? My sleep deprived mind was playing tricks on me, surely. I had gone seeking answers and found far worse.
I kept coming back to a terrible plausibility: What if the corruption that tainted this place had been only slumbering, sleeping and waiting? Waiting for someone like me to finally bring it back, to wake it up?
And the next thing I knew, I was at the church again. And the hooded figures were still chanting, only it was different, perhaps triumphant?
Yes.
And the figure was there, the hooded
thing that beckoned me forth with a skeletal finger and spread it's arms. And as I was enveloped in the Lich's arms and the smell of it filled my nostrils, I tore awake, screaming. I leapt up from my bed, dressed as quickly as possible and fled the cottage.
I drove out of town to a boarding house a short way from town and took a room for the night. I needed a night to decide what my next course of action would be, starting with a night of decent sleep. I decided that I would retrieve my possessions during the day and simply abandon the cottage. All I cared about now was putting the horror of that place behind me.
My relief was short lived.
As I was sitting on my bed, my shoes and coat on a the chair, smoking a cigarette in an attempt to to settle my nerves, a cold feeling washed over me. Without warning, that horrible, buzzing voice filled my head again. My cigarette dropped from my numbing fingers, and I jumped to my feet. I knew that I had made a mistake assuming that leaving the cottage would be the end of it. The evil that corrupted that dark church had marked me somehow, and it still had use for me. I remember desperately thinking that if I could just get to my car, I could somehow still escape.
The voice spoke three words that exploded inside my head, and my hands, which had been reaching for my shoes, went limp. I fell face down on the bed as the rest of my body also went slack. I could move little more then my eyes, but I could only feel my body, not move it.
My hands twitched of their own accord, and I suddenly knew what was happening. The evil of the church was controlling my body now, and I was an unwilling passenger in my own form. Like a fish hook, it began to reel me in.
I watched as I lurched to the door, neglecting to even put on my shoes, and down the hall, ignoring the few people I passed on my way down. Outside, my body went, and I could see the forest looming under the light of a waning moon. The realization of the evils true intentions became clear, and I tried to scream, to no avail. Into the forest my body went.
Twigs poked my bare feet, branches slapped my face, thorns tore at my clothes. I felt it all, and was powerless to stop it. I cannot adequately describe the intensity of my terror and shock at the time, and it was only beginning. My body walked, machine like, further into the forest. Trees frequently blocked out the light of the moon, but soon I saw it shining off of water. We were approaching a swamp, bordered by a small lake. Rather than go around, the force simply drove me on.
My feet sunk into deep patches of mud, and twice I was stuck up to my thighs. When this happened, my body slowly pulled itself out and continued on. I tripped over various obstructions, and once I fell face down into a deep puddle of inky, filthy water. I feared I would drown, and at the same time, wished for it. Dying would almost certainly be preferable to whatever fate awaited me. But alas, my head was lifted before that could happen. But we were almost to the lake. I remember thinking that perhaps I still had the chance to escape this fate. I walked into the lake, my feet sinking into the lake mud as I got deeper. Something painfully pinched my ankle. Mosquitoes landed on my face and drank unheeded.
My body walked until the water was almost to my chin and then I began to swim, in slow, sure strokes. Fish occasionally brushed my legs and torso, and a few even paused to nip at my flesh. I prayed over and over again for this horror to end, but those prayers went unheard. Finally, my feet struck the muddy bottom and slowly walked me out of the water. My muscles burned from overuse, but on I went.
Finally, I saw the silhouette of the church through the trees. Light blazed from every window. Several hooded figures stood in the dooryard, and I knew they were waiting for my arrival.
As I broke through the treeline, they surrounded me. Seconds later I collapsed to the ground as control came back to my person. The hooded figures closed in on me, and roughly hauled me to my feet. I was barely conscious, but I can still remember the smell that came off of them, a stink of filth and rot. I looked down at the hands holding me and saw they were dirt clotted bones. The dead dragged me into the church.
The scene inside was so horribly familiar.
The tall hooded figure was chanting passages from the book on the alter. The robed figures chanting. Everything was lit by torches.
I was thrust forward as the the hooded figure picked up the tome and turned towards me. It's rotted visage wrinkled as it grinned. Red light glared from the lidless, empty sockets of its eyes.
My blood ran cold as a cultist came forward on some unseen command to bow in front of the Lich. In his bony claws was a dagger, covered in indecipherable runes. The Lich took it from him, and with the tome still in his other hand, began to chant over the dagger.
At this time, my mind was given to a sharp and sudden clarity. I knew I was about to die, and I had little to lose. I turned to a nearby torch and ripped it from it's holder. The cultists hissed and made to stop me, but before they could, I thrust it upon the Lich and the foul book it held.
The book and creature both caught fire, and the conflagration quickly consumed both. The creature shrieked inside my head, a hideous, bloodcurdling wail that will haunt me until the end of my days. Mass pandemonium broke out as the Lich tottered around, setting fire to both cultist and building alike. I managed to blunder my way out the door to safety in the confusion.
My memory grows hazy after this point. I know that a group of men, alerted by my particular behavior at the boarding house and, alerted by the burning church's glow lighting the night, found me wandering the road near the cottage, which it turns out was also burning. I have no memory of lighting it. Both buildings burned to the ground, and when the church ruins were investigated nothing of note was found, no bones, no sign of the cultists or the Lich. It was ruled arson by my own confession, and my pitiful condition combined with my account of the events of that night I was judged to be worthy more of institution, rather than incarceration, for my supposed crimes.
And so here I am...although the final scream of the the Lich still resounds in my memories, my dreams are finally unblemished by that darkness. But I still wonder if some survived, and if they did, would they thirst for vengeance?
I know not. But I am in a place where the walls are thick, and the windows are barred. But sometimes I believe I hear faint scrabbling at my window some nights, but I never look. Nor will I ever give into that temptation.
So they call me mad. Let them. Here, I am safe.
I hope.
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