Conserative Morality wrote:I lit up a cigarette. The acrid smoke filled my lungs and brought me a moment of respite, the soft red glow burning away the darkness around me. Damn life. Damn death. Damn the thin line between them. I sighed heavily, smoke escaping through my lips. The mantra of the damned continued to resound with every blow on the door. "He comes!" Bang "He comes!" Bang "He comes!" Bang! My heart began to speed up again. My moment of solace faded away like the light of my cigarette. I took another drag, this one quick and meaningful, my mind racing to action. I searched my pockets for something - anything of value. A pack of cigarettes- "HE COMES!" BANG! Damn him! A lighter, my wallet, a pocket flashlight, and a pencil and pad. Nothing that could help me. Nothing that could save me. I burned my cigarette down to a nub and crushed it beneath my foot.
I decided to risk talking to the... Thing that Paul used to be. I raised my voice over his steady chant and calmly asked: "Who's coming, Paul?" The banging and mad mantra stopped for a moment. A soft scratching sound and equally soft sobbing replaced it.
"H... He is... He's coming..." A muffled sniff escaped from behind the door "He is... He has to... And it's over. It's all over... L... Lukowski... It's all over..." Well, that was more than I got out of him before.
"Paul," I said, trying to maintain a calm and soothing tone "Why can't you tell me who He is?"
"Be-... Because" BANG! Damn him! "HE!" BANG! "WON'T!" BANG! "LET ME!" A crunching sound sent a sickening feeling into my stomach as the bloody remains of Paul's arm pawed through the splintered hole in the door, desperately searching for the lock. Think, I had to think... I lit up another cigarette desperately. My nerves felt frayed, and my hands were shaking violently. I could barely hold the lighter steady.
I didn't know if I could overpower Paul even in the best of circumstances, much less when he was possessed by some godforsaken animus that made him ignore the line between life and death. Distantly, I heard my own voice echo softly in my head. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."
The scraping at the door stopped. I looked up in surprise. I didn't think God that worked that quick. Paul's arm wasn't pawing at the lock anymore, but I still heard him on the other side of the door. A sound, half-laugh and half-sob, rumbled past the door. "You... You've come..." Then, silence. I strained to hear what was going on, so focused on the other room that I let my cigarette burn out. A scraping sound followed; slow, deliberate, constant, almost (Almost) like a man walking.
A wet ripping sound mixed with Paul's screams and incoherent gibbering. I closed my eyes and tried to stop listening. I couldn't. I-the noises... Still haunt me. I don't remember the next few minutes very well. The... Thing that killed Paul, or what was left of him, passed by me; curled up on the floor, too unmanned to even beg for my life. I remember its claws scraping on the wooden floorboards in front of me, leaving deep scratches in the floor - the only proof that it was more than an illusion after it left. It stopped only for a brief moment, as if considering whether I was worth its time or not. "... Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death..." I could... Feel its malignance, sense the evil lurking within it. I couldn't bring myself to raise my head and look at it before it left me, but I saw those terrible scaled feet, long talon-like claws gouging out wood with every powerful step.
I stared at the long white marks across the floor for what seemed like an eternity after it had left. I couldn't focus, I felt my jaw laxly hang open, but I couldn't find the willpower to do much of anything. The thing that killed Paul... I was certain that God had sent it to save me, but I had trouble reconciling what I'd heard with what I knew God's nature to be. What was it? An angel? No. A demon, but God can work through anything of this world - or the next. I picked up the half-burned cigarette from the ground and lit it up again. I inhaled deeply from the cigarette butt, feeling the warmth spread all through my body, from my feet to my head. I felt the pleasant burn bite past and overpower the much less pleasant burn of my sore and battered body.
I struggled to my feet unsteadily and crushed the burnt-out cigarette butt under my shoe. God knew I had a job to do still, and I'd be damned if I was going to let Clara die in here like Paul. I refused to look at his body as I walked past it, but out of the corner of my eye... I could see there wasn't much of it left. Soon, the house would probably reclaim him too.
---
The house was in charge, it always was. I would turn corners that would bend the other way as soon as my eyes were off of them; doors that disappeared whenever I tried to leave the room. Hours in this hell had inured me to its machinations. The flashlight lent me a little comfort, at least. I tried to navigate the labyrinthine structure, but aside from trying to stay along the edges of the house, there wasn't much I could do. It felt like I'd spent days wandering the house, but a glance at my wristwatch put me at about four hours. When I came to a window to the outside world, I stood and stared up at the starry sky... Then down to the ground below. I wondered if the jump would kill me. I also wondered if it mattered at this point.
Soft clicking sounds echoed behind me. I spun around, fear clutching my heart - only to see a distinctly human figure trudge through the doorway. Fear gave way to loathing and a dull feeling of disgust. "So, you're part of..." I waved my hands around indistinctly "This?"
"Paul wasn't the first, was he? Only the most recent." The robed man moved like a snake, sashaying from side to side, his knife catching the light every few steps. "Not going to say anything in your defense? Nothing to say, I suppose. What's done is done for you folks." I looked down at the burned out end of the cigarette in my mouth. The bitter taste of cheap tobacco lingered in my mouth. I dropped the burnt out filter onto the floor and lifted my flashlight to illuminate the cultist's face. It wasn't a pretty sight; bloodshot eyes, dark rings under them, and a faraway, blank look. He barely looked alive, but I knew he was closer to the world of the living than Paul had been.
"Going to add me to your list of victims? Or would 'sacrifices' be a more fitting name?" I took my lighter out and moved my other hand to the tablecloth. I poured out some of the fluid onto the cloth and slid the tank back in the bottom. "Well, you know, the Hebrews of old used to make their offerings to God by burning them." I said conversationally "It was considered to sacrifice the whole of the offering to God by consuming it entirely with fire rather than allowing its flesh to be claimed by mortals. Funny idea, isn't it?" In one smooth motion, I lit the soaked tablecloth, grabbed one of the edges, and threw the heavy linen covering at him, my lighter clattering against the hard wooden floor as it slipped between my clenched hand and the sheet.
There was no fear in his eyes. That's what really got me. He wasn't scared. He wasn't surprised. If there was any emotion floating behind those blank baby blues, it was anger. It was rage. It was pure hatred, unbound by the chains of common humanity. Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed the enveloped figure and wrapped my arms around him, tangling him in the covering. Stumbling with uncertainty, his unnatural and desperate strength was sapped by confusion and blindness. I felt the flames lick at my arm, but I had the resolve of a cornered rat, a man with nothing left on his mind but his life. Heaving with all my strength, I pushed him over to the windowsill, the momentum of his own movement propelling him over the edge.
Adrenaline racing through my blood, I took out another cigarette. Slowly, I sat down on the now bare table and lit up another. Now was no time to rest, but I couldn't find the ambition to do anything else. I took a long, slow drag and felt the warmth spread through my bones and into my lungs. Christ. So much for cutting back. I felt the night wearing on me, felt the long hours drilling into my very bones. I don't know what kept me going. Slowly, I stood up and walked over to the windowsill to see how my assailant had fared. When I looked down at the man, I was surprised to see that the fire had petered out and my dearest attempted murderer was up and moving again. His movements were slow and convulsive, but he was still moving. "Shit." I muttered. That wasn't nearly as effective as I hoped it would be. I took another long drag. This wasn't turning out to be the night I thought it'd be.
----
I heard soft steady footsteps from down the hall, around another one of those damned corners. I flipped my flashlight off and gripped it firmly in my hand. If I had to, I was sure I could overpower one or two of the bastards, at least make them regret trapping me in here... And killing Paul... I brought up my flashlight like a baton, then swung around the corner and-
"Jesus Christ Clara!" I gasped as a familiar female face greeted me with a candle in one hand and a snub-nosed Ladysmith revolver in the other. "Don't scare me like that!"
"Is it all 'voodoo nonsense' now, George?" She said with a mocking half smile. You know what? Damn her too, client or not. I didn't know how she kept so cheerful all the damn time.
"Let's say I've seen enough to convince me. Let's get out of here and find the law." I took off my hat and ran a hand across my forehead. I was sweating like a pig and didn't even realize it. The last kicks of adrenaline were running through my veins and leaving me feeling on the edge of collapse. There was nothing left in me. No fight, no energy, just a bundle of exhaustion, misery, and fear.
"We can't do that." She said.
"No? And why is that?"
"Because if they finish their ritual, all the world won't be able to stop them."
I ground my teeth together. "Dammit Clara, you can't expect me to-"
"-go along with all this voodoo nonsense? Like the house reabsorbing its victims? Like the way the walls shifted to split us up? Like Paul getting back up and walking after having his throat slit?"
I closed my mouth. She had a point - after what I'd seen that night, anything would have been believable. "Alright, what the hell. How do we stop it?"
"It's a very precise ritual. All we have to do is interrupt them at any point before they finish." She glanced at her watch. "Which means we have about half-an-hour."
"I doubt they'll take kindly to that."
"I think we can make it work." Her smile had a dreamy, distant quality to it "And if we don't, it won't matter either way."
God almighty, what had I gotten myself into? "This is a lot more than what I signed up for." I muttered
"And here I thought you Private Eyes practically lived assuming the worst."
"This is still above my pay grade."
"I'll throw in a bonus if we make it out of here alive." She winked suggestively. I shook my head. For some, old flames die heart. Me... Well, if I hadn't been flat broke, I wouldn't have minded never seeing her again. But her interest in the occult and insistence on the dangers of this cult had driven off every cop willing to listen to a girl like her. Sadly, she was half-right at least. Most religious sects don't stab curious visitors in their places of worship.
I followed Clara down, into the bowels of the beast in a building's clothing. She seemed to know where we needed to be - how she kept track of the shifting walls and doors, I'll never know. Maybe it was just me... But it seemed like the house bent less when I followed her.
We finally found ourselves in a dimly-lit room, on a balcony above a circle of robed cultists chanting in a tongue I didn't recognize. Clara knelt down and motioned for me to follow. "I've studied their rituals extensively." She whispered "First, they have to make the proper obeisances to their God - Sildirim
"Ktur'siva Sildirim brzine allijn!"
"Now they call for their god to bring them the bounty of His harvest - freedom from morality, from laws, from faith. They offer three sacrifices - each representing an aspect of Sildirim." Clara whispered. I watched with a morbid fascination as they brought the candles of their occult circle closer together. "Fire is extinguished, bringing the darkness of His reign." I felt cold as the little flickering lights were blown out to their ritual chants. "Then, devotions are offered from among the cultists, bringing one of their own from life to the eternal walk, signalling Sildirim's mastery over mere mortals; showing that they are no more than slaves to His power." I looked away. Even in the darkness I could see them surrounding one of their own, hear the soft sound of ripping flesh and soft groans of pain. "And finally, to represent His understanding of the universe, the truth of the absurdity and pointlessness of human life and laws..." I turned as she put her hand on my shoulder softly.
"The blood of the betrayed." She whispered softly as she pulled the knife out of my gut. Pain radiated from the gash, pulsing steadily and blurring my vision. I had nothing left. No last minute adrenaline, no anger, hardly any fear. I gave up. I collapsed without a fight. I felt her carefully pick me up by the legs and neck. I tried to speak, tried to say something. All I could force out was a soft gurgling noise.
The cultists continued their chanting while Clara carried me from the balcony, down the stairs, and laid me softly in the middle of their circle.
"Ktur'siva Sildirim brzine allijn!" The words wouldn't leave me. They kept echoing in my head, drowning out every thought, every feeling and belief I had. Nothing could exist alongside Sildirim, Lord of Extinction and Father of the Abyss. I heard the slow scraping of the Demon's claws against the ground. The cultists went silent, but I could still hear their words in my head. Ktur'siva Sildirim brzine allijn!
Then I saw it.
I saw the world through its eyes.
I saw wide expanses of nothingness.
I saw gibbering men and women, so inured to horrors that they had embraced them.
And I saw the eye
One of many
But it saw me
And it will never leave me
The echoing in my head faded. I felt a pair of hands grab me roughly and pull up my jacket, felt the pull of the material world on my soul. Electric lights flashed everywhere, cops swarmed through the room, beating and restraining the crazed, pathetic excuses for human beings that served such a demon. Tears streamed down my face, fear convulsed every muscle in my body as I tried to push His visage from my mind.
"Make a stretcher for this man!"
"Fr-Frankie...?" I wondered if it was all just a dream, or if I was seeing my life flash before me. I hadn't seen Frank Graves since our discharge from the army.
"I'm here George." He grabbed my hand firmly "Stay with me." I'd never been so happy to see his rough, pock-mocked face.
"D-dammit..."
"C'mon," He urged "we made it through Cantigny, you can get through this." I was alive. Against all odds... I was alive.
Everything went black.
---
They put me in an asylum after the law was done with me. They said it was for my own good, that a few weeks or months in the care of professionals would fix me up. I'm not convinced that they can help me. I don't think anyone can.
The doctors were generous enough to lend me paper and a pencil - insufferably dull, but I make do. They say I spend hours every day in a catatonic state, that I don't respond to anything short of electric shocks. I never seem to remember, but the hours do pass unusually quick. First it's noon, then it's evening, then noon again, then morning. I can't say I don't believe them. They aren't so generous in return. They tell me I had a stress-induced breakdown, that what I saw that night was a natural reaction to being almost murdered by a bunch of loons.
I want to believe them, I really do, but I know what I saw. I've seen the wider universe, and it has seen me. I fear now it'll never leave me. The eye follows me, day and night. I can't see it, but I know it's there. Some nights, and some days, even, I can feel that presence again, feel the malevolence, the dark intent, hear the clawed footsteps echo down the hall. It goes as quickly as it comes, but I feel like it's just biding its time, just waiting for the right moment. When that moment comes, I fear nothing in heaven or Earth will be able to save me. But I hope, and I pray for the strength to fight that fear, to fight this evil. And if I ever get out of here, I'll find a way to fight it again.Anima Christi, sanctifica me.
Corpus Christi, salva me.
Sanguis Christi, inebria me.
Aqua lateris Christi, lava me.
Passio Christi, conforta me.
O bone Jesu, exaudi me.
Intra tua vulnera absconde me.
Ne permittas me separari a te.
Ab hoste maligno defende me.
In hora mortis meae voca me.
Et iube me venire ad te,
Ut cum Sanctis tuis laudem te.
In saecula saeculorum.
Amen
Characters - 20/25
Lack of context for most of the characters. The main character was the only one that was fully developed, fully fleshed out. Like NFP said, you detailed his mental deterioration very well. Still, it would've been nice if you put the same amount of effort to the other characters (e.g, put subtle hints of character history through Paul's remains.)
Plot - 20/25
It was decent. It's very clear that you had a lot of influence from Lovecraft's works. Almost reminds me of one of his work actually. Nonetheless, it was a good rendition, and it would have done him proud. Some context would be nice, however.
Setting - 14/15
Did not have any problems with this. It could have been better in some ways.
Creativity - 8/10
Good choice of words. It was somewhat predictable to me.
Style - 9/10
Everything flows well.
Theme - 10/10
I seriously did not expect him to be stabbed.
Grammar/spelling - 5/5
Overall - 85/100