Metek, Alaya, Sturge, and Crim sat anxiously on hard wooden chairs around a wooden table in the basement of the Abandoned House in Semtar’s Forest. The basement was lit by candle-flame, but the moonlit, night sky peeked through holes and cracks in the faltering, aged floorboards above. Animals and insects scurried in the shadows. A strange scent saturated and impregnated the air. The atmosphere was dense and heavy…
Archive for the ‘Names’ Category
Death is but a tangent of existence, for I have lived many different lives in different worlds through death—death being the medium through which I reached these lives. There are different layers of afterlives. They are each unique, and they do not blend. And whether or not all who perish will share with me the adventure into the endless haze of possibility is uncertain. What is certain, for me, is that death brings life and not unending darkness. Death is a button that each time pressed reconstructs matter and sets me within it.
So, as a drug instills its ecstasy, I have been led into a spiral of repeated suicide for its thrill of reinvention. No, this is not reincarnation; this is rematerialization in flesh and body with the full transfer of mind and memory. Each new world comes with the remembrance of those prior. And these worlds are both real and ethereal. I can live a full, new life. I can feel pain. I can die, but death only brings upon me that which I desire: rebirth. How I come to be in such places in the fullness of life after each death is the key to understanding the actualization of my situation—that I am caught in a cycle of wholesome ghostliness, a form of eternity.
Death upon death upon death is my gift and ability within the universe of known and unknown matters. Such worlds have I seen. Such pleasures have I experienced. Such creativity in demise have I expressed. Although, as with living comes disease, so with my infinity comes conditional powers of parallel iniquity. It has been in these various fate-defiers—deep in this cycle of ongoing living despite death—that a damnable thing has been forced upon me, an estranged evil more cunning and absolute than the full capacity of the mental construct, intellect. How terribly disease can drain life. How excruciatingly Craytick can deaden immortality. The further into the deaths I travel, the more Craytick reveals itself to me.
But let me begin at the end—the end of my first life and the beginning of all the others.
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The castle of the Lord Brasher stood as it always had—sharply cut black stone jutting upward to create halls and chambers and towers and spires. The front gate, before which I stood, eerily hung open as like a gaping wound run dry of blood. No one foreign to these walls would dare enter, so the powers therein dared to leave it open. The castle’s sins had long outlived their mortal bindings, creating within it a world of evil unconquerable by mortal means. I had come to cleanse it; or, more truly, I had come to summon the vessel that would carry out the deed.
From a jug, I poured a puddle of clean river water atop the dusty road leading into the castle’s darkness. I poured enough to create a watery span of two feet. Then, with utmost concern and delicacy, I retrieved a rose and its stem that had been laced with string across my back. The surfaces of the rose had been intricately decorated with paint—the most absurd and archaic illustrations being the result of such artistry. It was such designs that were the spell of this summoning—the ideas and lore that reached between worlds of life into worlds of magic and played between the two, merging to define abnormities beyond the land of dreams.
I tossed the rose into the puddle. It landed silently and sent brief ripples outwardly upon the surface of the water. The display was beautiful, but the act was insidious—insidious, but necessary.
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The chillanthon was waiting for me outside of my house, calling to me with its unsettling voice, tearing through my heart with its restlessness. I could hear its arms whip across its torso as they swiveled back and forth from shoulder sockets detested with freakish pivotal ability. It stood in the middle of the street, shrouded in an ink-drawn fog that swirled around the neighborhood as a cursed drape.
As it called my name, my family looked to me from beneath the dining room table with eyes that spoke of fear so deep that pus muddled their unblinking outlines. They could not speak, and might not have ever again. They did not understand what was occurring; I did. I had been thrust despairingly into an abominable fate. There was nothing left for me but to embrace the terror, pain, and incredible sadness quelling the last remnants of my life.
I took my wife’s face between my hands, followed by my children’s, drawing them close to me one by one. To each of them I left the grace of my departing love—all of the embers of goodness remaining within me to give. I left no words unspoken—no virtue unkindled. With a kiss, I sealed each of their spirits with my own, and then I walked out of my house to encounter the nightmare stalking my existence.
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On the dull road called Mayberry Lane, I stood at the turn of the evening. I had just flicked a cigarette at a passing vehicle, watching as its cinder flashed into the night. In front of me stood the Cursory—a name given to a house because no one ever gave the place a second glance. It was tucked a short ways off the road, but far enough away so that even the bluntest detail of its presence went unobserved; it was the home of my love.
As I began my walk to the house’s secluded porch, a succession of pricks began jabbing the back-ends of my eyes. In patterns of circles, the pricks drilled, pushing forth into my retinas. The burrowing continued once inside my eyes; when in the middle, the digging descended and came out through the bottom. There, the apparitions poured invisibly out into the open; it felt as if they were flowing forth like worms through a meat grinder, but there was nothing to see—no evidence of any such happening. The sensation then ceased.
I had just turned twenty years old.
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