A LETTER FROM MR. WILLARD ISLEY
SIX JULY 1909
The nature by which I came into possession of The Blightwater House was both peculiar and melancholy. I transcribe this letter in a selfish sort of proprietary manner, without a spirit of cheer or good humor. This accounting, and the faithful regard in which I am relating these particular affairs, arise from a necessity to articulate my story; the strange and horrible business that ensued at this dreadful property, and to ensure, in some small way; that when I am carried to the sea, which I am quite certain now will be my final resting place, I do not disappear without warning.
It began with a brisk knock at the door at a sufficiently late hour, and with a plainly deposited black letter. It was strangely and formally arranged, perfectly formed and without blemish in any distinguishable aspect. My full inscription, Mr. Willard Isley, was etched there in some dreary manner, nearly cut into the parchment with what appeared unusually furious slashes. I fumbled with the document, feeling at once uneasy, and splitting it open with some effort, found only an arrangement to meet one of the foremost solicitors in Essex, a Mr. Howard Lambert the day after tomorrow.
URGENT AUDIENCE SOUGHT, it read in a bold and somewhat disquieting print, with nothing present at all pertaining to the subject of the gathering. It was all rather bizarre and unsettling, enough that I could not quite rest, and instead began to creep about the house as not to wake Sarah or my two daughters. I kept turning the curious paper over in my hands, waiting for it to speak to me in some sense, provide me with some sort of indication as to its nature or meaning. I found nothing, and concluding as much after the passage of several hours, at last set myself to bed as I began to see daylight slither beneath the heavy tapestry curtains.
The next day passed without much flourish. I attended my regular meetings in London and met my regular acquaintances. I tried not to contemplate the paper, lest it disturb me further or set me off from my usual trajectory. I would meet with Mr. Lambert, remark about the crudely deficient delivery and constitution of his post, and with any luck, gain additional insight into its irregular origin. It was all simple enough then, it seemed.
The following day, I found Lambert’s compartment in a special state of disrepair. The door barring entry to the corridor was jammed, and then, after I had pressed upon it with some aspiration, it flung open and nearly deposited me onto the scratched wooden paneling beneath. The light fell oddly in the place too, a noticeable and distinctive shade of bright red that appeared to illuminate the hallways and furnishings rather unsuitably. Further, mounds of withered documents lined the halls and bordering workrooms, misaligned, and cast about. The setting, in its entirety, was unbefitting for a man of Lambert’s prominence, and I imagined taking my leave of the place, closing the chapter on the entire sordid affair, and returning to my warm home in Essex with my two daughters and my wife, who would have, by now, prepared an agreeable evening supper. I impress upon you now, that some part of me then, did want to leave, shut that shambling old door behind me, and never look back. But there was something else too, a curious and searching spirit, a part of me nearly incensed by the indecent and scolding nature of that parchment that appeared upon my door so late at night. Further, I feel now, with more time to evaluate and reflect upon the subsequent events in better detail, that something was urging me onward, nudging me along an imperceptible track that I could not yet understand, dragging me in the direction of that infernal house where so much suffering would soon befall me.
Mr. Lambert appeared in an instant, promptly rounding a corner, and startling me so that I let out a low and half-astonished gasp. He appeared oversized in a starkly animal manner, a bear of a man with a shrewd face and an imposing stature and resonance. He thrust his enormous hand out and took mine before I had an occasion to accept, shaking twice vigorously, releasing it, and motioning me to sit. He spoke swiftly, and his darting brown eyes found mine after crossing the length of the room.
“Sincere apologies for the occasion, Mr. Isley, and for having to inform you in such a fashion. I am merely respecting the hasty instructions set forth by a certain acquaintance by which you will be most familiar.”
“Who might that be?” I asked narrowly, hearing my voice before I remembered speaking, feeling with more certainty then, that I had been summoned to this office to receive a distressing piece of information to which I was utterly unaware.
The large man sighed and sank back into his overstuffed crimson armchair, running one of his coarse hands through his loosening black hair and pressing it back against his tall brow. He must have been three and forty, yet he looked, in some way, and caught in some perspectives, much older still.
“Best to be forthright, I suppose. More humane than another way. A particularly well-to-do client of mine passed away some days ago under tragic circumstances, I’m afraid. He listed you as something of an immediate relation and inquired upon me to contact you on the instance of his death. I told him to stop being so morbid and, speaking candidly with you now, I didn’t much consider it a serious affair at the time. He was a fairly youthful man and affected with no illnesses, or bad temperament. Death seemed quite far away.”
Before I could further inquire about a name, he spoke again, low, and swiftly, a near-whisper, parrying counterthrust of words that seemed to assault upon my senses.
“Mr. Thomas Eves.”
I felt the wind nearly pulled out of me then, torn from my very lungs, and set about the room. Thomas had been raised in the house adjacent to my own and we attended primary school together, and later, university. We had spent many brilliant hours together, and I had grown especially fond of him. Near the time I married, he had left Essex to attend to his family home in the countryside, and I had not heard from him in what felt to be several long years.
“How?” I asked, barely managing words at all. I had never imagined his death at such an age, and in some way, it felt distinctly unfeasible. He felt eternal, always a cautious man with a wild smile, full of ideas, a cheery disposition, and good character. Death, simply put, did not suit him.
“Hung himself, I’m afraid, which somehow is not the most peculiar detail, Mr. Isley, if I may say so myself.”
A protracted and terrible delay fell on us then, as the man appeared to work within himself to configure his sentences in the finest approach that he could manage.
“He was discovered face down in the water, adrift in the sea. The curious part, of course, was that he did hang himself. There was a length of old wharf rope tied around his neck and pulled together in a proper noose. No unusual characters were seen about the place, nor suspects of the like in town or on the road, and they found a scarcely legible note with his hand and seal. It was just him, alone in that big dark house on the water. Alone for many years.”
I felt a shudder run the length of my spine and trembles begin on my forearms. I pictured him, the sunny, reasonable, bright man I knew and had come to admire lost in that vicious manner, bloated and blue carried inland by churning black waves and salt sea, brought again and again against his own property, mangled and deformed by sea life that had found him much before the inquisitors.
Mr. Lambert spoke then, wresting me from the ghastly image.
“The worst part of my career when this sort of thing comes about, though it proved necessary in this instance, seeing as far removed as he was from any township and how his family determined to address the matter. Kept it from the papers, they did. Of course, with an end like that, you can’t much blame them.”
I nodded again, feeling pale and numb, the color and life leaving me, before imploring myself to continue.
“I appreciate the prompt nature of this information, Mr. Lambert. Still, I am at a loss for why it is exactly that you brought me here, or the particular interest you have in seeing me informed regarding this dreadful affair in the first place.”
“It’s plain enough, really, Mr. Isley, and well-reasoned. I imagine from your reaction that he never told you.”
He paused and leaned forward in his colossal chair, steadily folding his hands on his desk, and forming something that narrowly missed the semblance of a smile with teeth that grew too long over the short, red gums in his mouth.
“He left you that property, the entirety of the house and grounds at Blightwater. Twenty-six acres of beach and marshland, an intrepid sort of bog, and two twisty old trees.”
He did grin then, fully this time, in a way that I remember as appearing somewhat odd and ill-fitting on his face, as if he didn’t quite know how to bring together the proper assortment of muscles to form something genuinely pleased. I did not have an answer for him, and he stared at me like that for some time, waiting, before he ceased his posture and spoke again.
“Mr. Isley, I understand this is a ghastly business and all, but please do appreciate the quality of the property. It is valued rather highly, and indeed many of his relatives are distraught about this recent revelation.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I started then, my words arriving deliberately and barely above a whisper before trailing off entirely.
“Don’t say anything at all then,” Mr. Lambert offered, and tipped his head courteously. “What you see fit to do with the property is your own enterprise. Sell it, burn it, leave it in disrepair, all at your discretion. Not for me or anyone else to decide for that matter. I’d soon as be off the place myself, seems to have caused me nothing but headache.”
Seeing my miserable state, which must have been more evident than I had realized in the moment, Mr. Lambert then stood and crossed over to me, stopping only a few paces short and looking down upon me with a considerate sort of pitying glance.
“Mr. Isley, if you were close to Thomas, trust that he knew what he was doing when he affixed your name to the title.”
He waited, and from that low angle, in that dim red lowlight, his face looked positively mad.
“It seems you were meant to have it.”
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I did not notify Sarah about the property when I arrived home later that evening. I did not mention anything about the events of that day in the slightest, Mr. Lambert, Thomas’s suicide, or our sudden accession of wealth. To this day, I am still not entirely certain what prevented me from doing so, other than, of course, that I was still working through the dreary sort of knowledge on my own schedule, pulling apart the various elements and rearranging them in my mind, trying to make sense of the whole affair.
I did, a few days after, inform Sarah, and to my shame, I fabricated my introduction to the report to make it appear as if it had been a recent revelation. She flung herself to me at once, knowing the manner in which I loved Thomas, and held me that way for a long time. I wept then, for the loss of my dear friend, and more than that even, in the sadness of his loss, the bitter ruin of his passing, dying by his own hand, there alone by that frothy gray sea, without so much as mentioning the matter to me at all.
********************************
I met with Mr. Lambert twice more, and he drew up the paperwork and set the whole affair in motion. As per his reputation, he made good and quick work of it, and for that, I noted his achievement and thanked him generously for his time. I still had no understanding as to what to make of the property. Selling it just didn’t seem the proper route, I found myself thinking with some frequency. Indeed, I could not believe that Thomas would have intended me to release the estate so promptly after he had decided to distribute it to me, and certainly in such a distinct and direct manner as to offend his very relatives.
Still, I did not know what any of it meant, why he had chosen me to receive the house in the first place, as we had never as much as frequented the property together, nor walked the grounds, nor even discussed the location for more than a few passing moments in the length of our friendship.
I sat with it for some time, all through the winter months and until the spring arrived, the sun with it, casting lengthy shadows over Essex and bringing that interminable heat which had so afflicted our quiet house each year in those swiftly approaching summer months.
By this time, I imagine that I had become somewhat depressed. I did not take account of the normal pleasures of the day, a calm breakfast with my wife while the children slept, the infrequent occasions in which I met with colleagues or ventured a stroll with relatives. And there were dreams as well, unusual, lively, ominous visions that I could never quite set together into anything meaningful when morning came.
Nothing felt appropriate at all for that time, not until Sarah cornered me at breakfast and suggested that we summer at Blightwater on the twenty-ninth of June. By this time, my particular sort of despondency had begun to affect our marriage, I must say now with some moments to reflect upon the matter. One can only sulk about the house for so long before he begins to, in all eventuality, dismay his partner and upheave the very structure of the family. Presently reflecting, I find this must have been true for Sarah to propose such a drastic measure. She was not much for adventure, not since the birth of the children, and in no way for visiting a house in the county to which she had never set her eyes upon. She must have viewed it as something of a clean beginning, a fundamental jolt to my dispassionate persuasion, something to bring her husband back home to her.
This realization breaks my heart more than anything else, now, as I form these words at the desk by the great window in the master chamber of this cursed house and overlook that dead sea that moves so desperately and carries itself always toward me.
It started with pure intentions and a sound heart.
When Sarah made the suggestion, I was nearly offended, and responded rather indecently. I reminded her that I alone would decide when, and if, I would ever pay a visit to the estate, walk the same halls where my friend had so suddenly fallen to madness and come undone. It was my place after all, and my solemn responsibility to make that decision for the rest of the house.
Yet, something about her remarks did resonate with me, trailing me about rather enthusiastically through the following days as I traversed the congested city streets to my business and back again, and felt that stifling seasonal heat bear down upon me. It felt, in some capacity, right, to visit the place, set my eyes upon it at least once, and decide then and there what to do with it after the passage of so many months. I decided then that I would visit first, alone, for an evening or two, and then reflect the experience upon Sarah when I returned. Furthermore, having scouted and gathered considerably more information regarding the particular nature of the land, I could at least decide what to do about it, preserve it or cast it away, and at least then, instigate the process of moving on, obtain some closure for my dead friend, and separate from the mounting malaise and immobility which had afflicted me since.
When I informed Sarah regarding my decision, she smiled and clasped me warmly. I think she knew that she had set me out on the path to finally arrive at a decision and begin to get on with my life.
For that, I loved her all the more.
I arranged my usual assortment of items for a brief holiday, and within two days, kissed my family goodbye and set out upon the countryside for the coast, winding my way through those fractured and long-forgotten roads, towards that expansive property to which was wholly unknown to me in every sense.
Curiously, throughout the entirety of the voyage, I felt a certain sense of alarm stir in me, a constant and pressing trepidation and anxiety that heightened with each fleeting moment. On one occasion, some distant part of myself was so sufficiently maligned by these undefined apprehensions, that I loudly instructed myself to alter my route and return to Sarah and my two lovely girls, forget the whole affair and be done with it, prepare the estate for auction and not set another thought toward the matter. Still, something compelled me onward, a certain sense of duty impressed upon me, to my friend, of course, as I have relayed here, but also, and perhaps more rightly so, to my family and to myself. I felt that this was the only way forward, to break out of this despicable and lonesome state, and to return to the husband and father that I had been before the terrible revelation.
Besides, I assured myself then as I neared the property, I was only scheduled to be away for two nights.
What could come of it?
*******************
The sun fell obscurely when I arrived, and its imperfect light made the causeway through the marsh particularly dreary. There was a profound and utter silence about the place and for some distance before my arrival. Inexplicably, I felt, as I pulled the car up the drive, that my sound, the very nature of me being on the grounds at all, was of notable disturbance to the essential spirit of the place.
The house itself loomed tall and cut a hideous figure at such a great swath of natural beauty, its black silhouette carved madly into the darkening orange sky. It consisted of a wide smattering of red and grey stones, indelicately cut, and placed, which gleamed against the chilling, brisk sort of haze that dove in somewhere off the coast and disguised the place. Tall marsh grass and nettles sprouted densely on the courtyard, and an impenetrable yellowing moss streaked the stone walls. There was what felt to be an overwhelming sense of gloom, increased by some measure by several mangled old trees that crowded close about the edges of the house, their pensive image reflected upward in the muddied marsh water.
The formation sat rather improbably on some sizable acreage, much of it submerged marshland that led outward to a rough sandbar and that yawning, hostile ocean that seemed to stretch past the sky. It was a great and lonely monolith, with signs of long neglect upon it, so little disturbed by interaction, that it appeared, in some dismal way, as if it had never known human contact at all, had never been the miserable sort of place that sat still and witnessed my dear companion weave together a shoddy noose with fraying old cords from the wharf and pull them tight around his neck until there was no air left to breathe.
At once, my instinct seemed to recognize something dangerous, but more curiously still, I began to feel myself edge forward along an overgrown and abundantly downtrodden path that wormed through the snarled mess of high native grass. A gentle sort of pattering rain came about the grounds then, pressing softly against the old stone and running lazily across the thinning glass windows. It fell against the grasses and low hills, thrumming against the swamp water, forming thousands of virtually imperceptible swells that came and splashed away and came again. The entire effect was rather muted, but in an unusual way, thrusting the marshland into a state of constant animation. I felt then, and throughout the remainder of this lashing sea squall, that the estate itself was moving with the climate, gasping and shaking in some slight, largely unobvious manner, breathing.
I shuddered at the thought, and assuming a prevailing sense of courage, set my sight back upon that grand black spectacle of a structure that reared and reached toward the heavens and into that divergent mist. I began to forge more promptly up the beaten and mossy path, carrying my luggage above the crown of my head to protect myself against those many icy cuts that came with a weather that had suddenly become intolerably bitter. The rain came stronger still, and with it, the start of a brisk hail. It pressed rather unpleasantly against my back and neck, stinging my skin and tightening the shirt against my damp flesh.
I flung myself against the door, stumbling for the key, and I admit, rather ashamedly, that I felt then, having been sufficiently exhausted from the trip, and perhaps the pervasive anxiety upon the decision to visit the old place, fully relieved of my hold on rational thought. As unlikely as it may appear at the time of this reading, I supposed then, as I forced the key into that old brass lock and turned it so harshly that I thought it might wedge the whole contraption apart, that the very sea itself was trying to reach out, pull me within its brooding clutches and drowned me where I stood.
The door split open with a chilling metallic scream as weary hinges bowed against themselves, and I nearly collapsed as the gate went with them and I lost my sense of balance. I quickly regathered my composure, shook myself free from that dread water, and turned back to seal the entry against the mounting winds.
I must have lost my sense of the passage of time during the trance-like assessment of the manor and adjacent grounds, as unexpectedly it had grown very cold, and very late. The sun died beneath the crest of the bordering foothills and cast long and wafting shadows that extended through the old windows at unusual angles, making everything appear, at once to be much too thin and elongated. I pressed both palms against a dry and decaying sort of surface and moved outward in increasing rotations, searching for some sort of lantern, which certainly must have existed in such an entryway. I felt nothing at first, and my hands began to work more frantically in the dire blackness. Just then, I could feel something shifting toward me in the dark, something that lived out of sight in those deep shadows, something that felt in a distinct manner, quite hateful and incredibly aware of my presence. I heard what I perceived must have been steps then, too, creeping along the passage, moving steadily and never deterring as I held in a shout and shuffled more briskly against the plaster.
I felt a distinct sense of self-preservation and panic overcome me as the steps came more hastily still, initially as a hurried tread, and increasing to a gallop, and then a full sprint, careening down some horrible and unseen corridor that stretched into the blackness and possibly beyond it, to where, I could not guess even yet. With it came a sort of low, guttural sound, an outward-facing sort of wet scream that erupted through the halls and tore viciously through my mind. I felt myself go numb, my flesh break into a thousand needles, and a cold terror blow through me. I moved my arms wildly then, as the steps came upon me, and that horrible screeching set my ears ringing. I stumbled into a low table and grasping the lantern that resided there, instinctively lit it, and furnished it about my face in a sort of defensive, parrying gesture. I felt the old house roar to life then, inspired in some respect by the kindling, the adjacent fixtures sparked once with the flame, fluttered, and ignited then together in the sporadic glow. I gasped for air, and holding the lantern before me, turned to study my surroundings for whatever terrible beast had made such a noise and come upon me so. Indeed, I found nothing at all except the very place itself, caught in the meandering orange glimmer. I breathed deeply and gathering myself once more after what felt like a long moment, I resolved to leave the light ablaze for the remainder of my stay.
I collected my luggage without noticing that I had moved at all, and began to take a more serious account of my surroundings. I was standing in a tall and morose sort of foyer, surrounded by dense wainscotting that stretched high about the walls and a broad wooden staircase that went straight ahead, into a sort of arched portal, and out of sight. To both my right and my left were long passages that led into an equally inscrutable darkness, and there was another, smaller corridor that stretched out in front of me and ran parallel along the stairwell. The walls were painted a dreary sort of crimson on all sides, and although they were indeed set apart by a great space, they felt by some means smothering, as if they could pull together at any moment. Everything was uniquely fashionable, but very old, beset in places by dust and nasty soot, and very much not with the contemporary preferences of society. It was an odd image to digest, those murky wood panels and lavish reds, the hand-fashioned fixtures, and countless respectable oil paintings set around the room. Individually, they were bearable, something of a singular collection of many desires from different corners of the world, but together, they were something else entirely. I couldn’t understand how that picture could at once appear so beautiful, yet intolerable. Indeed, the longer I studied the entrance hall and bordering sitting rooms, the more the nature of this construction eluded me entirely. It all felt so curiously assembled, the sturdy walls and beams connected at incorrect angles, the ceilings and floors set simultaneously too high and too low, built with apparently false dimensions.
There was something else as well, a vicious sort of stench that accompanied the place and pricked at my senses. It was a perilous sort of damp, profound in its depth, and seeming somehow aware of its enclosure upon me. It pressed in, from the very supports of the house, it seemed, marching its dead march from those loathsome black waves and through the dense flatlands outside and into the assembly. It touched and soured everything, stained the old wood, and discolored the drapes, seeped into the bones of the place, filling it with a nasty sort of brown moss.
The whole appearance set me off and made my temper uneasy. Feeling abruptly quite weary from both the long journey and the bewildering fright upon my arrival, I resigned to shut myself in for the night. Mr. Lambert had advised me that I would find the master chamber situated on the second floor, and I began to make my way up the vaulted stairs at a very low pace, feeling my feet nearly drag beneath me and supporting myself up the banister with only one hand. I was nearly out of breath when I rounded the top of the stairs and arrived at a long landing. To this, I am still not entirely sure of the origin other than to say, with some impractical belief, that the house itself seemed to be taking something from me.
With some much-needed fortune and a nasty sort of skirmish down a prolonged passage, I found what appeared to be the master chamber. I pressed myself in, closed and bolted the wooden door behind me, and feeling a bit flat, crossed the room to the bed and collapsed in it, unable even to remove my garments. I felt my eyes begin to close, hopelessly heavy about my face, and noticed as I slipped into that dream state that occasionally takes us all, that outside the storm had swelled into something truly menacing. It collapsed savagely against the windows, all but heaved there from swirling black clouds, attempting to push its way in through those shallow old creases and swallow the room altogether.
Darkness took me, and I fell away from my form entirely. It was as if I had lost myself, by some means drifted apart from my very being, disconnected from the singular particles that made up my figure. There was nothing in that shadowy place, caught somewhere between the very absence of light, of everything I knew, and many things I never would. There was nothing at all until, very suddenly, one seed of light generated in the center of my view and began to push outward, expanding. A sort of horrific image formed then, imprinted in my mind and on that utter black canvas, filling it with mud and frothing sea waves that crashed over jagged rocks. Languid, ink clouds lurched overhead as the concept came to completion. Somewhere in the distance a horn blared through the swirling winds, carried away and lost, somewhere I heard screams. I searched the vision and saw them, Sarah and my two daughters, Rose and Margaret, crushed and drowned in the waves, turning over, lifeless and dim.
I felt a hollowness take my heart, a profound and deep sorrow, as I saw my family splayed out before me in this tremendous nightmare, discarded and destroyed by the same waters that had so indecently threatened me upon my arrival at the house. I felt tears sting my face, and more than anything, an immeasurable frustration from the sheer powerlessness that accompanies dreams, the utter comprehension that there was absolutely nothing that I could do to protect them.
I was filled with a ruinous sense of loss, and despair took me.
Then I heard Sarah.
She whispered my name from just outside the chamber, and then, before I could properly reconcile myself from sleep, I heard her again, this time from somewhere inside the room, edging closer. Startled and feeling afraid, I attempted to press myself up from the mattress, but found no such power. I remained flat, pinned, as I heard my wife move about the room, seemingly with no intention to conceal her movements. She was there, somewhere I could not see her, as lightning pulsed outside, and winds wailed so loud they rattled the windowpanes. I heard my girls then too, from somewhere beneath the bedframe. They must have been playing down there, I thought, dazed, and unable to form a full connection with the waking world. It was all so unfeasible, and in that way, I felt that I must still somehow be asleep.
Lightning splintered into a thousand fingers outside the window, and I saw my wife, standing above the bed and looking down at me with something of a sour and rather unpleasant expression edging across her pale face. Her red hair was thrown desperately and fell lazily about her shoulders, as if she had been caught outside in the gale for several hours and had only now made her way inside. I tried to speak, but again found that I could not form any words. I was entirely silenced, outwardly petrified, and the terror that I felt then from those effects and staring at that looming, ethereal vision of my wife was unbearable.
Sarah did not move. She stood entirely too straight, but her eyes changed, quickly losing the soft and human quality from which I had so grown accustomed throughout our many anniversaries, bending inward until they disappeared entirely into blank and horrid sockets. I felt frost work its way up my spine and into the nape of my neck. She began to change again. Her mouth pushed outward, steadily, and most insufferably, soon off her face at the edges, and mangled grey teeth bared out on either side of her lips, a rotting blue tongue played lazily over them. Her skin stretched all wrong over her face, as if it had been removed altogether, pulled apart and left out in the sun until it had dried into a sort of leather, and then had been imprecisely reattached to her bone, sagging hideously at the base of her wide eye sockets.
I watched as everything shifted, then switched back again, forming from that callous, makeshift concept of my wife to my very own face, then to something that closely resembled Thomas Eves. He had aged horribly since I had seen him, and worse yet, plainly wore the repulsive effect of his death on his flesh. His neck was black and swollen purple from where the rope had pulled taut and strangled the air from his lungs. His face was bloated and lumpy, waterlogged from days at sea, his skull and cheekbones were bruised and broken from being repeatedly thrown against the coastline. The whole effect was so horrible that I did scream then, seemingly severing the spell that had kept me still.
Thomas seemed to search the chamber with dreamy, hopeful eyes before turning them on me. They turned cold then, dispassionate, baleful. From somewhere below, the happy shrieks of my girls ceased, and I heard many limbs scrummaging around in the hollow space below, crawling up the length of the bed and skittering around behind me.
I watched in horror as his right arm slowly lifted, finally stopping to point directly into my eyes. His blue lips pulled apart into a ragged sneer, and then much beyond that, until his jaw unhinged entirely into a discordant, forced scream much too large for his face. Dozens of grotesque and skeletal fingers reached and pulled and clawed their way out of that gaping maw, along with many pale fisheyes and crustacean hooks that must have burrowed into his battered and ruined corpse.
I felt then that if I did not move it meant to kill me. I pushed against the paralysis with every part of my being, lashed out against it with what remained of my mind and rationality, the affection for my family, Sarah, Rose, and Margaret, how I read them stories before bed, how we rushed toward the low dunes together when we visited the ocean, how they looked at me with those vast orbs of eyes that believed, truly, that everything would set just right in the world if you only believed it so. I felt myself struggle free from that crushing stupor and regain motion. I turned my head and saw a great noose extending from the ceiling behind me, those putrid, thick cords inches from settling upon me and pulling tight.
I dove from the bed and landed hard to my left with a crash, rolling onto my back and pushing away, away, AWAY—
It was morning.