Hidden beneath a thousand dying leaves, the lifeless body of a scarecrow slumbers. Its chest made of a sack defiled by tattered, grey fabric weaved together by frayed rope, from it a crooked arm grows, looking mangled like that of a broken limb, twisting in unnatural directions. Its legs made of decomposed animal limbs, tied together with the umbilical cords from creatures not of this earth. Where toes should have been, rusty, old nails are burrowed into the bloody sockets of torn animal limbs. Despite their detachment from their hosts, they keep bleeding.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Its head a monstrosity almost indescribable by man. The head of Adam split in two where the jaw opens, the upper half attached to its back, the lower half and its ragged teeth remaining as it should. In the dead of night, its two red, skewed eyes would watch you, prey upon you, devise an unearthly torment of one’s mortal soul. When it hunts, it uses all four limbs to pursue its prey. When it hunts, it sings a song forgotten by the tides of time. When it hunts, it’s too late to run.
When you hear The Harbinger of Torment sing, it’s too late.
***
Once upon a time…
A lonely woman sits alone in the glade, the bench a relic from a forgotten time, a time which no one wants to recall. A black pouch resides in her lap, as she mechanically reaches in and throws its contents upon the dead leaves populating the forest floor. A ritual she has performed for what feels like an eternity, or perhaps it feels like a single moment perpetually bound to repeat itself until time thawed. She feeds the desolate ground as if in hopes of resuscitating the forest from its feverish state.
Squish.
Squish.
Squish.
In her ears, the screams of a thousand agonies ring, whether it was the torment of the forest or a suppressed memory, the woman could not fathom. Or perhaps it was Them, whispering their foreign absurdities, deluding her, asking promises which should never be given. Nevertheless, her ritual calmed her nerves. For any passerby, it would seem as if breadcrumbs from the whitest of loaves were being served, yet no animals would eat them. The old woman would always be baking, the chimneys of her house scorched black by the infernos conjured by her stove. But upon further inspection, it was neither bread nor crumbs being offered.
The eyes of the ignorant are being blessed with the privilege of sight.
***
Once upon a time…
The cries of a mother rings throughout the city, from its streets to every heartstring of every inhabitant, striking a chord of sadness in whomever listens. The mother cannot feel nor comprehend the pain anymore, her symphony of despair being played for the third day now, an encore inevitably on the horizon. Her tears becoming puddles, becoming streams of water, becoming floods which washes away the filth from the planks, the pavement, and the streets. Yet no flood could wash away the sullied sins of the town’s dark history, its many sinners. But the tears do not stop.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Her child had gone missing. The last to have seen little Susie was her neighbor, claiming she went into the forest, and never returned. No one dared venture into the forest, the bravery of the most righteous men faltering at the prospect of entering that nightmarish realm. Why had Susie gone there? On the seventh day, the woman had cried out her last ounce of humanity. What was left, was an empty shell. Without anything to lose, she resolves to find her child. She ventures into the forest. And once within, she hears the cry of her child, one, final time.
She found the lie containing the truth, but only once blind did she see its entirety.
***
Once upon a time…
A singular boat gently floats in the ocean of a pond, sending ripples which disturb the morning glory mirrored in its surface. A lonely fisherman watches as his fishing lure bounces in the water, watching for any indication that an innocent fish has fallen for the bait, blind to the irony of his own fate. He watches vigorously, not aware that the ripples in the ocean of the pond are not caused by the boat nor the fishing line. But something entirely else. Yet, he is distracted by the bopping of the lure, like a bell tolling for fortune…or crisis.
Bop.
Bop.
Bop.
With all his strength, he pulls the rod, hoping the line contains his salvation from starvation. But once it erupts from the surface of the water, his hopes are crushed, replaced by an unimaginable terror. What lays before him is neither a fish nor anything of the material plane. It looks like a beating heart made from the cosmos themselves, with each pulse, it spews out glittering dust. But what the fisherman believed to be a heart; was in fact a child he had robbed from its cradle, from the uninvited. And he is not spared a mother’s wrath as a mangled animal limb wraps around his neck and pulls him into the ocean of the pond.
Once below the surface, the illusion of the world above shatters before him.
***
Once upon a time…
A single pathway carved into the dying earth guides those who’ve become lost within the forest’s womb. It twists and turns across boulders resembling slumbering grotesqueries, to hills which breathe the life of the forest in and out. All who are led astray seek the path, hoping it will escort them home, yet none ever emerge. Only the beginning has ever been seen, no one has encountered the end. Yet they still embark on the path, walking on crumbs of whiteness with every step.
Squish.
Squish.
Squish.
On the path, an innocent, lost girl scurries, scared of the twilight consuming the remaining daylight. Like a bottle of ink tipped onto a white sheet, darkness consumes the remaining light of day, and with each new splotch, the girl can feel her heartbeat quicken. The path twists and turns, promising safety yet gives none. As blackness devours the last fragment of illumination, the girl’s sight is turned blind. Only two red stars remain in the distant horizon. Suddenly, she hears a song. A melancholic song, a transcendent song, a song which stirs unfathomable emotions within the innocent, lost girl. A song sounding like nothing she has ever heard a human sing before. She follows it, deeper and deeper into the woods.
The blessed hear the melody of falsehood while the ignorant is deafened by its tune.
***
Once upon a time…
A lady scrubs a stone slab feverishly, attempting to remove the crimson blight from its surface. She hums to herself, a song she’s heard before, perhaps as a child, perhaps when she died. The song of the forest, the song of the uninvited. It calmed her, whenever They called for unspeakable favors. It calmed her when the screams of tortured agony threaten to deafen her sanity. However, nothing could compare to the screams attempting to escape from the infernal ovens. But nothing escapes the furnace of the forgotten, except their eyes. And so, the lady hums the melody, over and over again, her head nodding to the rhythm.
Bop.
Bop.
Bop.
She hears Them whispering a language forgotten by the tides of time, yet they know every syllable, coming from the trees, from the ground, from the very pebbles of the path. They may speak, they may move, they may create, however, they may not see, perhaps the catalyst of their obsession. Only an offering quells their curiosity. Of what their static voices speak of, the lady does not know, nor dares imagine. No mortal imagination may begin to grasp their intentions or conduct, only fear their capabilities. But she obeys, does not question the uninvited nor the old woman.
Because once you divert from the path, you will hear their song.
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