I hear them, the bells, they screech out in the night like ghastly beasts, taunting me. They say it is 5 O’clock, but the moon tells a different tale, one of deception. Why do the bells lie, they have never lied, they have always been a one constant truth, but before me on the Hill of the Gazer, I am adrift in a sea of pitch-black awe. There are no stars, there are no lights, there are no sun there are no hope, for I have let slip the abominable phrase that shall not be read aloud on the hill. Carpe Mortis, cease the death.
The bells sound worse the close I get to the church, as if submerged in sludge but still whaling like a banshee, a dismal drawn out hum, that maddens me so. The path to the church is usually a pleasant one, but with the ever-consuming dark it is a pilgrimage of the most stalwart of disciples. I must get to the church and undo what I have done, but I must hasten my steps as the darkness brings with it whispers of voices most foul.
The church is sealed, and with it so is my fate. The whispers grow louder and draw nearer, with every breath I take I feel the darkness closing in. The church has a door at the back that leads to the pulpit, I must undo what has been done.
The door was unlocked, I was about to enter when I heard a familiar voice from behind me. I turn around to see Issabella, the baker’s girl, stood in a shroud of darkness. “Mortis Nocturne Eternum” The words rumbled out of the girls’ mouth over and over until they fell into a ghastly guttural barking like that of a beast. I ran inside and bolted the door before it could get me, I must undo what I have done.
Ascending the stairs to the pulpit I could hear the hymns of the disciples who had fled to the church to evade the darkness, the familiarity blessed me with a righteous vigour. I arrived at the pulpit and looked downward at the stalls, they were empty, the hymns had ceased, my body fell still at the sight in front of me.
The sun lay on the floor in the centre of the church, dark and shrivelled, with a moon stood over it in the form of a man. A dim light emanated from the centre of the suns’ decrepit carcass, a glim echo of what it once was. The moon drove a spear through its heart and slew the hope of return. “Nocturn Eternum” said the moon without words, I was to late to stop it, I hear the whispers draw closer, I hear what was the village congregate outside the church. Night eternal hast fell upon us, and I am become it’s father.
This excerpt was taken from a diary from approx, 1502. Relevant information has been flagged and extracted for analysis.
Entry 67552 : Solaris Project.
This document is classified under the federal jurisdiction of the 411.