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The Beast; The Damned.

The Beast; The Damned.

I wrote this ages ago. It reads very roughly, but, I think I had fun penning it.

Hamish.

The Beast; The Damned.

1478 words

“My pretty’s…………………………….” a voice, resplendent in all its grave yard and catacomb tinted splendour, regales. Slight fear begins to gnaw at the inner you. “Best you cease now in your reading, put this parchment back within the hellish vessel from which it was found, lest you cower lifelong at the tale that unfolds within these words beneath. Beware the Angels, for that is what they are, of Damnation that will hound you through the petty scrap of life you treasure so, yet a life that means ever so little to me, and to them. Terror and foreboding will snare everything that you are. Sleep will next find you only in death, as the ghouls of the ether enter your blackened soul, turning your mind to a stew fit only for the maggots of the grave.” this speech, longer than planned or anticipated being elicited by the foul breath of a corpse, ever so long dead. He breathes the stench of the ages over you. You reel from this.
“You. Yes ‘You’,” continues your ghoul. “Still sitting there with that pathetically human half smirk on a face given to you in the image of your creator, ‘You’.”
“I have paid you this service, offering the idiocy that you and humanity are, in the form of salvation. You. Yes ‘You’ have been warned.”
“This path ends here dearest of readers, stop now.”

“You are still there I see dear reader? Oh well.” It enunciates these few words through grinning ivories the colour of truth, relishing every syllable as though it were a breath.

“Close your eyes’ and listen to the sound of the dice cast for the owning of your soul in a game of chance played by angels.”

“Now I start. There is no way out now, for you.” Warns this cowl clad fiend of despair.

The old Gods, the Gods of the woods, of the spring and the winter, of the hunter and its prey. The Gods of man when man was yet to dress himself in little more than the skins he tore from the backs of unfortunate beasts’. The Gods that were the flint for the fire. The Gods that had cavalierly created frozen wastes further than man could walk for a season, in any direction. The Gods who caused the thaw. The Gods of terror and power and fear and love. The Gods of the sun. The Gods of man.
Man has never inhabited this place. This place of darkness and hopelessness; this place without spirit or joy. The old Gods didn’t come here; neither would those that are to follow. They didn’t visit.
They didn’t visit because without belief, there is no God. And without man there is no belief. There was no man because there was, simply, a beast.

“Now dear readers, you have a feel, not yet an understanding, but a feel nonetheless of what horror must have lurked for man and men to avoid this place so.”
“Dear reader, picture midnight. Not some happy midnight involving joyous celebrations and the good will of men to all. The other kind. The kind that tales of horror and the fantastic are written and told about as a result of. Tales of headless horsemen; of wolves lurking in forests. Tales such as that with the monster ‘Grendel’ hidden in folds of its story. Of terrors as Herod inspired and the babies slain under his name.” It draws the rasping breath of a long dead corpse.
“So dear reader, let us cast our minds back further to midnights before they were named. The nights ‘dark’ inspiration for original sin. Night inky blackness and the ultimate cause of all fears. Cloaked darkness. Where things unseen scramble out of eyeshot, but tantalisingly within shot of the ear. That place where clouds veil a frozen sky, preparing for the late night kill of all caught out beneath it. The chilled wind that courses through the trees’, a confederate in the freezing death of all lying before it. Snow, the final in this trilogy laying its cloak of death on all as lovingly as a mother throwing a bear skin over her child.

Midnight blacker than tar.

There is a lesser valley where water after the thaw was captured, yet never released from her bonds. A valley permanently wreathed in shadow. Be it the shadow of night, or under the shadow of crags and hills and mountains escaping the suns’ of eternity.

It is not a particularly large pool, but a pool nonetheless. The wind cannot reach it, and as nothing runs either in or away from it, it is always, always without ripple. And, it is always black. As black as the sins of man. With one marginally larger than lesser exception. A terrifying and ghastly exception one would not, nay, could not inflict on another.

The pool reaches down to Hades, but does not enter.
Occasionally, yet always, it is at night dear reader. Oft it is during the turning of the solstice or in the midsts of an eclipse of the moon. These are fine examples; it is not unknown for a gentle rippling in the water to result from some unseen turmoil unleashed in the very depths below. Slowly, the ripples will gain height and number in this black and viscous oil like pool.

Bubbles will soon begin to rise, and so will a glow. ‘tis the glow that is the key here, as it means the beast is rising, and will begin to rise gaining speed whilst it is at it.

“Oh poor sweet dear reader, how you should have done as I had bid and halted this damning endeavour. Why ‘You’ have read this far is proof of that that is humanity, and your inability to take note and notice of those in place to give it. Do you not feel the butterfly wings of damnation flitting around your face and soul? Does that not chill you enough?”
The bubbles increase and the glow, shifting from insipid white, to a brilliant and blinding light breaking the surface of the black and midnight pool.
After the light, hair, dark, lank, long and unruly cascades in tumbling curls of flat fat black weed over her head and face. The face is white, white as the light emanating from it. Deeply sunken eyes of smouldering black coal blink away its face covering hair of misfortune. Her body, more in line with ill matching lumps of clay, than of the slender body of feminine youth.

She breaches the water, and walks heavy footed across the pools surface to the shore where she finds a handy, yet buttock warn, rock and sits heavily shaking the ground and hills that surround her.
“Hmmm, now dear reader, none of this sound’s particularly scary does it? No? Nothing more than some femininesque white beast escaping the depths of some enlarged puddle or the like? Nothing more than a wench post bath who has decided to sit on a rock perhaps?

Ha ha!!! You poor stupid things that have gambled and lost. Oh dear, oh dear……..”

Surrounding everything in a light, blindingly white. Remember the light? That light? Yes? That my friends’ is the light of ignorance. The all encapsulating horror of ignorance and the ignorant. Covering all it touches with its stupidity, sucking the intelligence from all it sees, all it feels, all it liaises with. Huge and unattractive as only the ‘Masters of the Obtuse’ can be. Those ‘Masters’ who languish in places akin to those select united and allied states within North America are found to be. The light of ignorance pollinating the globe and all within it in unblemished, intellect draining, idiocy.

A blink of an eye. One, two, three centuries pass her unnoticed. She sits, pendulous breasts’ rest upon the rolls of her gut. Her light of ignorance ever so slowly, tenaciously, slides around the blue dot as seen in the skies by Orion and Cetus. Ignorance seeps into the earth’s every pore. Pollinating, breed ignorance of depth and purity never before encountered by those sad pathetic inhabitants. They drink it like wine the fools. The Fools!!”

Sad and humourless laughter of the crypt is injected by ‘Your’ ghoul here.

Painfully grotesque; wobbling, wallowing, returning to her black and midnight realm beneath the water, taking the light of ignorance with her, not realising the scope of ignorance she has forced upon the world around her.

“Now reader, are you still able to read this piece? Are you now limited in counting to the amount of digits you possess? Ha ha!! You stupid fool’s!! Do not try to go back to reread this, the horror of illiteracy will devour you. Ignorance has pollinated your mind, and it’s softening has begun dear reader. Dear Reader. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!!!!!!!”

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About Hamish Ross

Indie writing at its most dubious.

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Hamish Ross

Hamish Ross

Indie writing at its most dubious.

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