TW: CSA
I have this memory from when I was 3 years old that I can't even think about too hard otherwise I get a flashback. It feels sexual in nature, I can just feel it, like I just "know". I can't remember what happened, but that memory is markedly distinct from every other memory. It feels fabricated, to hide something unspeakable.
Once when I brought up the "funny memory" in therapy, I tried to go into the memory and a blizzard-cold chill went down my spine, and I went so pale my therapist gave me stress toys and ran out to get me some water. But no memories.
I also have DID but don't have a memory of what could have caused it besides thus, since it develops usually before 3 years of age. I am also autistic so some trauma with sensory issues could have caused it too, but it still feels suspicious.
It all points to SOMETHING having had happened, but I find it so hard to accept it. It... can't be true, can it? But also feeling like "oh, that didn't happen to me, there's no way" is a very typical trauma thing. I don't know, it's all confusing. I'm looking for validation basically... does it feel like this for some others too?

Vibrators that can be controlled from a distance are fantastic because they allow you to remove rocks without anyone knowing.
Additionally, if you select the appropriate toy, your partner will be able to control the various settings from a distance or even from a nearby seat. It almost seems as though the gods of great sex entered our heads and gave us what we've all wanted: kink and convenience.
Don't get me wrong, though. Although I adore a good dildo just as much as any other girl, not all situations call for a sex toy in the shape of a dong. A lady sometimes just needs some vibrations in her pantyhose to tease her opening and tickle her clit.
Contrary to popular belief, females actually orgasm in entirely different ways. Contrary to popular belief, nearly 4 out of every 5 women never get the big O from just penetration.
This indicates that 75% of can women never experience an orgasm in their entire lives.
As far as I might be concerned, that is an unspeakable atrocity. It's not surprising that so many women these days are irritable given how crucial sexual intimacy and climax are to a person's mental, emotional, and physical health. If I had to have sex without getting off, I know I would be.
Meanwhile, no matter what they do, more than 10% of all women never reach their peak.
Thus, sex toy producers have been staying at work longer than required to foster all the more impressive, designated gadgets for individuals whose private parts need some additional persuading. The surprising vibrator that can be controlled remotely is here.
It comes in all shapes and sizes, yet it does what no dildo could possibly do and that is move an O-face from an external perspective in.
Vibrators are a popular sex toy that can help you explore new sensations and enhance your sexual pleasure. Our collection of high-quality vibrators come in various styles, including bullet, wand, and rabbit, to satisfy all needs.

My brother-in-law was indeed a weird dude. My then wife Jenny would tell me all kinds of stories of his disturbing behavior. She said he had a condition, but that it could be fixed in time. She would never tell me what that condition was but assured me that it would be remedied with the right kind of medicine. The first and last time I met her brother- Christmas Eve of 94- he explained to me that he was possessed. At first, I thought it was just the eggnog. The Kelly family mixes a mean eggnog: nine parts bourbon, one part eggnog. Sweet mixed drinks never sat well on my stomach. In fact, we had been married two years and it was the first time I had met any of Jenny’s family. Jenny wanted a simple civil marriage without any of her family attending. I was uncomfortable from the first moment I walked through her parent’s front door. I had an intangible sinking feeling. Maybe it’s a false memory or I’m confusing the beginning with the end. Maybe it was that toxic eggnog. It made me sick to my stomach and flat out irritable. I know I wasn’t a joyous person to be around that night. I didn’t feel too sociable. Jenny was furious with me. Some parts of the evening are a blur, but there’s one event I’ll never forget and I’m still trying to find a way to shake it.
I was smashed in between Jenny’s grandparents on a couch in front of the television, making small talk about mundane things no one really cares about until they have to get to know one another. I couldn’t concentrate, my head was spinning and her grandfather was droning on about the toys kids play with nowadays. Even the blinking lights on the Christmas tree were a source of misery.
“Justin, are you ok?” Jenny whispered in my ear from behind.
“My head is killing me. Get me out of here. Save me.”
She ignored my plea, giving me that look that I was about to mess things up forever. “I’ll go find some aspirin.”
The droning began again, incessant talk about nothing. Jenny never came back. I could hear her laughing in the kitchen. Her cousins had caught her and they were catching up on life, with subtle comparisons about who was better off and all that nonsense. They didn’t say it out loud, but every word they spoke was a competitive jab at the other’s mistaken belief in their own superiority.
“Hey, man. You’re Jenny’s fella?” I heard someone from behind me inquire. A lanky young man with long stringy blonde hair made his way to the front of the couch. His hands were balled up in fists and he looked rigid, with an intense look on his face.
“I’m Bob, Jenny’s brother.”
“I thought your name was Marty?”
He tilted his head and rolled his eyes upward, pausing as if confused and lost in thought. “I guess you can call me Marty, but I like Bob as well. You wanna come outside to the shed, my bedroom? I wanna show you something.”
I was ready to get out of that stuffy house, crammed with relatives, exuding heat, noise, and body odor. I felt like I was trapped under a pile of bodies. I was more than willing to get outside.
“Sure.”
I followed Marty, or Bob out to the shed in the backyard.
It was a large red shed, faced with dirt and moss. He swung open the door. A waft of warm putrid air rushed across my face. On the inside was a small cot and a dresser. Above the cot was a bland oval mirror, with silver framing. I could hear an unusual sound, scurrying or the ruffling of feathers.
“What is that sound?”
Marty grabbed a hanging chain and pulled downward, announcing with pride, “Rats!” An extremely bright light filled the shed and blinded me. There was a shelf that ran the length of the shed wall, and on that shelf were three cages filled to capacity with rats.
“You raise rats?”
“Well… raise them, until they’re plump and fat and ready to eat,” he answered. He looked at me with a wicked grin and a twinkle in his eyes. I honestly didn’t know if he was joking or not. The mood was tense at first but after a brief pause and some awkward silence we had some normal conversations and talked about things I could relate to- football, muscle cars, and music. I was finally getting comfortable, even with the audience of rats clamoring about, when out of nowhere he brought it back to weird.
“You know, I’m possessed, and I did it on purpose.”
“You’re silly.”
‘No, I’m for real. I read a book about making an enchanted mirror. Well, I just went and bought one. The important thing is the spell you put over it, the ritual. If you do the ritual right, you can make any mirror a portal and looking into it, will reveal the possessor of your soul behind the mask of your face. Come here, I’ll show you.”
He moved the cot out of the way and stood directly in front of the mirror. He started chanting something to himself. The words weren't audible, but the chant had a haunting mesmerizing rhythm.
“Come here stand beside me. Keep looking and you’ll see the possessor of my soul.”
I walked over, stood beside him shoulder-to-shoulder so that both our faces fit in the reflection. I stared into the mirror. My face was lower than his, and it looked as if we were attached to one another. I looked like a little latched on brother, begging for attention.
“Do you see it?”
“I don’t see nothing.” Yet, as I said that his face became contorted.
“I look like a demonic pig humanoid.” I couldn’t have described it any better. He didn’t look exactly like a pig, but it did remind me of a pig. He didn’t have any tusks but a few of his bottom teeth had protruded out from his lips. They weren’t symmetrical, there was no pattern, just a few teeth here and there displayed in odd places. His nose was flattened and large, exposing huge nostrils. His complexion was a sickly greenish gray and his eyes were black as ink.
I looked away from the mirror and at Marty to see if the real person looked the same as his ghastly reflection.
“No, don’t look at me. Keep staring at the mirror!” I heard two voices as he barked his command at me- his own and a deeper menacing voice. The real Marty looked normal, but his reflection now had a monstruous reality painted over the top of his face, the full transformation now complete.
Marty stepped aside, moving out of the focus of the mirror. I saw the lower half of his body move out of the frame, but the grotesque head remained, floating and turning its gaze towards me. I tried to step away from the reflection but Marty grabbed my shoulders and held me in place. He ducked his head down behind my back, hiding his face from the mirror, and began chanting again.
“Alright, I’m done playing with the trick mirror. Let’s go back inside.”
Marty ignored me and kept chanting. The head in the mirror grew larger, eventually extending out beyond the frame of the mirror. The demon had now emerged into the real world. I could hear it whispering my name. It was coming closer. I struggled against Marty’s grasp, but he had the force of a vise on my body, and my feet felt glued to the ground.
“Let me go! I mean it you crazy moron!”
The head had completely left the confines of the mirror and was floating in the air about the shed. It stared directly at me. I closed my eyes tight, wishing I would wake up from this bourbon induced nightmare. I heard a groan, and the air in the shed began to fluctuate.
“I’m sorry man. I had to do this. You seem like a cool dude, but this is the only way to get rid of it.”
The wind picked up, and the temperature dropped. My body was freezing, the tips of my fingers aching with extreme cold. I felt a warmness in my chest. When I opened my eyes and looked down, I saw the head entering my body through my chest.
“Get it off of me!” Marty let go of me. I was pushed to the floor by an unseen force, my body paralyzed, and useless to fight off the intrusion. As the head entered, my mind grew darker with nefarious thoughts, unholy macabre thoughts. I tried to fight them off but I was tangled in a mental web of anguish and despair. Suddenly, my body was released, but still rigid. I could move a little, but it took effort and my muscles felt contorted.
I heard a stampede of footsteps. Jenny and her family had come into the shed.
“Is it done?” I heard her father ask.
“Yeah,” Marty answered in a somber tone.
“Don’t feel bad. We had to do it.” My vision was blurry, but I could see that Jenny’s dad had a hammer in his hand. He went over to the mirror, took it off the wall, and placed it on the floor. He started smashing the mirror. He didn’t stop until it was shattered into tiny powder-like shards.
Jenny bent down over me. “I’m sorry honey. I was starting to like you. This was the only way to cure my brother. The only cure is to give the curse to someone else.” She stood up and walked out of the shed. I never saw her again. She claimed I was abusive and filed for divorce.
Jenny’s father picked me up off the floor and escorted me through the side-yard gate.
“Leave, and don’t ever come back. If you do, we’ll call the police. We’ll say that you hit her. Just go and find yourself a new life. Jenny don’t need any of her things. Forget you ever met her or us. Forget about tonight.”
I stumbled to my car, weak, confused, and angry. I got in and turned the ignition, but I didn’t immediately leave. I wanted to go back into that house and tear the shit out of it. I wanted to stab every person in that house. I had an intense urge for violence.
“Hey.” I heard a muffled voice and a knock on the window. It was Marty. He looked more relaxed, his demeanor less intense, and his hands hung loose, not balled up in fists. I rolled down my window.
“I do feel terrible, but I’ve lived with it long enough. There is a way though for you to get rid of it.” He handed me a leather-bound book.
“Page 49. Start there. Get you a cheap mirror and find you a gullible host. No offence.”
“What’s going to happen? How’s this going to play out?”
“Not good. That’s all I can tell you.”
He walked off and in front of my car. I thought about running him over.
Years have passed. I hear voices, telling me to do unspeakable things. I have a horrible appetite and a hankering for rats. The human part of me wants to cook them, the other part of me wants them raw. I have gone over the ritual. It’s easy enough. I’ve even spotted a few ‘gullible’ candidates. I’ve decided that if I’m going to give someone this curse, it’s going to be someone who deserves it- a real piece of shit, but then I get to thinking that maybe that would create an even worse monster. I’ve become a terrible person, a half-monster, but I feel the spirit inside me is unimpressed, disappointed. I’m bad, but not evil. I’ve reasoned that I can handle being possessed and that the best place for this spirit to be is locked inside my body, away from someone who could do much more harm than me. The spirit likes to call himself Bob. It’s short for Beelzebub. He’s assured me that if I don’t release him to someone more capable, he’ll make my life a living hell. I assure him that my life is already a living hell. A little more poison in the pot isn’t going to make it any more lethal than it already is. Besides, cooked and seasoned correctly, rat isn’t all that bad.

Welcome to the dark and foreboding land of Barovia, a cursed realm ruled by the dreaded vampire lord, Strahd.
As a hero who has enjoyed some small measure of fame, you have been lured to Barovia by a mysterious letter promising fortune and glory. But little do you know that it was a trap set by the malevolent Strahd himself, who seeks to toy with you and break your spirit. As you make your way through the treacherous landscape of Barovia, you will encounter unspeakable horrors that will test your resolve and sanity, But with quick thinking and clever strategies, you may just survive long enough to face the ultimate challenge: a showdown with the powerful Strahd himself.
Can you muster the courage and strength to defeat the vampire lord and bring an end to his reign of terror? Or will you fall like the countless others who have dared to challenge him?
For additional information, either DM me or check out this listing!
About Me: Greetings! My name is Chris, but you may also call me by my username yousodumb or some variation thereof. As a seasoned DM with more than 15 years of experience, I'm excited to bring the ominous and foreboding world of Barovia to life in our upcoming paid Dungeons and Dragons campaign. While I do tend to stick fairly closely to the rules, I'm also all about creating an immersive experience and allowing for some epic moments along the way. I believe in the power of "Yes, and..." as well as "No, but," and I'm always striving to find ways to increase player engagement and enjoyment. One of my favorite things is working with players to weave their character backstories into the overarching plot, bringing everything together in a truly compelling way. When it comes to gameplay, I try to strike a balance between mechanics and narrative, putting equal emphasis on both so that everyone can have a great time. And of course, with the setting of Curse of Strahd, you can expect plenty of gothic horror and mystical elements to keep you on the edge of your seat. So let's venture forth together and see what fate has in store!

Welcome to the dark and foreboding land of Barovia, a cursed realm ruled by the dreaded vampire lord, Strahd.
As a hero who has enjoyed some small measure of fame, you have been lured to Barovia by a mysterious letter promising fortune and glory. But little do you know that it was a trap set by the malevolent Strahd himself, who seeks to toy with you and break your spirit. As you make your way through the treacherous landscape of Barovia, you will encounter unspeakable horrors that will test your resolve and sanity, But with quick thinking and clever strategies, you may just survive long enough to face the ultimate challenge: a showdown with the powerful Strahd himself.
Can you muster the courage and strength to defeat the vampire lord and bring an end to his reign of terror? Or will you fall like the countless others who have dared to challenge him?
For additional information, either DM me or check out this listing!
About Me: Greetings! My name is Chris, but you may also call me by my username yousodumb or some variation thereof. As a seasoned DM with more than 15 years of experience, I'm excited to bring the ominous and foreboding world of Barovia to life in our upcoming paid Dungeons and Dragons campaign. While I do tend to stick fairly closely to the rules, I'm also all about creating an immersive experience and allowing for some epic moments along the way. I believe in the power of "Yes, and..." as well as "No, but," and I'm always striving to find ways to increase player engagement and enjoyment. One of my favorite things is working with players to weave their character backstories into the overarching plot, bringing everything together in a truly compelling way. When it comes to gameplay, I try to strike a balance between mechanics and narrative, putting equal emphasis on both so that everyone can have a great time. And of course, with the setting of Curse of Strahd, you can expect plenty of gothic horror and mystical elements to keep you on the edge of your seat. So let's venture forth together and see what fate has in store!

In the eerie town of Haddonfield, darkness loomed over the streets as the moon hung ominously in the night sky. It was a place known for its haunted history, where legends whispered of unspeakable horrors. It was here that the paths of two infamous killers would cross, igniting an unexpected connection.
Michael Myers, a relentless force of evil, wandered the town with his iconic white mask, haunted by his past and driven by an insatiable thirst for blood. Ghostface, a cunning and sadistic figure, hidden beneath a chilling mask and cloak, reveled in the terror he inflicted upon his unsuspecting victims.
On a cold autumn night, as the town prepared for Halloween, an unusual encounter took place. Michael, lurking in the shadows of an abandoned house, caught a glimpse of Ghostface carrying out a horrifying act. Instead of feeling envy or resentment, a peculiar emotion stirred within him, something he hadn't experienced in decades—attraction.
Intrigued by this enigmatic figure, Michael began to observe Ghostface from a distance. He watched as Ghostface moved with calculated precision, toying with his victims, reveling in their fear. But behind the mask, Michael sensed a vulnerability, an untold story hidden beneath the layers of darkness. It was a revelation that drew him closer, his curiosity mingled with an unexpected affection.
Ghostface, unaware of Michael's presence, continued his reign of terror. Yet, he too began to feel a strange sensation, a lingering gaze that made his heart race beneath the cold exterior. The chase, once driven solely by sadistic pleasure, became entangled with a new, inexplicable desire.
As Halloween approached, the town buzzed with anticipation, oblivious to the sinister romance brewing in the shadows. Michael, emboldened by his newfound emotions, decided to reveal himself to Ghostface. He orchestrated a meeting, carefully positioning himself in the path of his dark counterpart.
Their eyes met through the eerie mist that engulfed the town, each seeing a reflection of their own darkness in the other. There, amidst the desolation and despair, an unspoken bond formed—a connection born out of shared pain, twisted desires, and an unexpected yearning for companionship.
The night of Halloween arrived, and the town was draped in an unsettling silence. Michael and Ghostface, now consumed by their forbidden love, ventured together through the moonlit streets. They no longer hunted separately but united as one—a twisted harmony of love and darkness.
Their passion burned amidst the chaos they unleashed, as they reveled in their shared sadistic nature. Their victims, paralyzed by terror, bore witness to a love that defied all reason and sanity. The town of Haddonfield became their twisted sanctuary, where love and death danced hand in hand.
But love between two killers was never destined to be peaceful. The flames that once burned bright began to consume them, driving them to madness. Their love turned into a volatile obsession, and the line between pleasure and pain blurred until it disappeared entirely.
Their reign of terror escalated, leaving the town in ruins and its residents paralyzed with fear. The once-romantic bond between Michael Myers and Ghostface had become a toxic union, drowning them in a sea of bloodshed and anguish.
In the end, as the town lay in ruins and the screams echoed through the night, their love had consumed them entirely. The legends of Haddonfield grew even darker, the tale of two twisted lovers etched into the town's history—forever entwined in a horrifying romance that knew no boundaries.

‘Surviving The Win’.
…
Chapter 004.
…
Avem Smith, deluded enough to believe in her newfound last name, ‘The Swarm’, continued to read from her own Books, by now doctored, senile and half-forgetting they were “Playwritten.”
…
“… The Bishop had been told, that he would need at least, "One Dragon," to bribe, "Atlas-Epher," over, and, hopefully, win a working Dream.
Problem being, no Dragon had been in sight for Ages. Nor, "Atlas-Epher," and the Bishop had no, "Decent Pipe," nor, "Decent Tobacco..."
Ahem.
…
‘The Story Of, "Far-Mason," "Pathwrit," from the Agged Caravan Dig In Euclon’.
Patrick wrote on threin of parchment. He was working on one, for the Giam Muc/Bishop to Burn in his own pipe. Inevitably, for it to work. The Wind took it to a’tack.
One of the other Stone-Masons had hit the delicate line of phantom paper, as a draped cloth blew in his face. Oof. He had been standing on a wobbly ladder, working on the roof. The pictures had been posted around, and Patrick had been moved there with his supplies. The thin single lettered threins of Parchment, loosed. Patrick had been working on, well… a lot of them. This one, was a Sacred Arabian Majin Binding. His hand had slipped, and an, “un-ending, “ream,” of paper, flaxed outward against the walls, in a billow. Climbing off the ladder, the man went to tell the others outside, about the mess.
Oh well…
The script, “wrapping,” clung outward at the walls. Patrick tried to hold down one end, and it caught a candle. The script sparked.
An Oriental feng-huanged/phoenixed burst of violet plumous smoke appeared and swirled around the chamber. Patrick panicked, fell backward, and the building collapsed.
‘The Book of the, "Ho-Do”’. 'Sheer Luck, a Knack, and a Claus'.
"... How Lucky is Man, is as, "How the Betterment of the Saviour is on all Heirs', "proverbial," "Mint." That is, in how it is the, "Coin"/"Quoin (i.e. "Cornerstone, that the Builders rejected")…”
What does this mean?
“… Simply, that we are encouraged to realize, that, "Mint," and, "Shamrocks," relate, and that there are two types of Clover, and only one is His (i.e. Christ's). In life, we choose either, "Caesar's Shamrock," with, "Caesar's Coin," or, "God's Clover," with an, "Heir's Salvation," through Christ Jesus…”
“… This, tells of Luck, something valuable, which is, "That luck is such, that you should never wish to need it; only pray to do good..."
~ Forevermore, that is, "Amen ("Truth"/"Trustworthy" - Revelation 3:14)," in Heaven, for Eternity. ~
…
“… Before we go any further now, "Iapetos," was a Titan of Mortality, "Atlas-Epher," his Son, was a Titan of Strength. Now, as, "Iapetos," was replaced by, "Gepetto," in the tale of, "Pinocchio," and his son, "Pinocchio," made up to mean, "Panache," the character of, "Pinocchio," himself, must have still somehow made his way around to that of, "Atlas-Epher," again…”
“… What could that possibly mean, if, "Yggdrasil," is also the newfound symbol of Atlas-Epher? This tree, Yggdrasil, similar to the, "Biblical Tree of Everlasting Life," for some, and it, also, being Christ's very, "Own," Tree?...”
“… Well, it's hard to get into, but it is said that it fed two children, a boy and a girl, named, "Lif," and, "Lifthrasir," with it's Dew. Though I speculate, if Ashen... Truly with, "Dhewh." All, while hiding them and protecting them from calamity. That is, if and only if, a, "Sig," were a, "Fig (or, "Apple")," as it is, in Cursive Writing…”
…
‘The Puff’. ~ “… Figaro – Bolero – Mambobola – Bluff…” ~
“… Now, if Pinocchio, is the effigy of a strange, Satanic Puppet-Mastery, he’s known for his nose growing longer, whenever he tells a lie. He is a, "Living Incarnate Doll," not a mortal child, but a, "Knack!"…”
…
“… Pinnochio takes on the life of a Mortal Child, later on in his story, by a Spirit Booning him, thus...”
“… I daresay it's possible, however, like Epher, who hides his True face, behind a mask of Ashes to Deceive people, as it were, through a, "Masquerade," of Intentions, Pinocchio has no trouble lying…”
“… Thus, when you conceal the matter, or mask your intentions, it could be asked, who's side are you really on? The Lord's, or your own?...”
“… A Sabbath analogy of Pinocchio, would say that he is, none other than a, "Beast of Burden. Specifically, though? A Camel. Of course, and mainly, because, their noses still get ringed on the Sabbath, even the males…”
“… Seeing as, "Pinocchio’s," name derives from the word, "Panache (ultimately, "Spur")," we are left to wonder if he is a, "Spurred Camel," of some sort, but this really is not too far from the Telling. As, it is within the realm of another word, "Spurcamus," or further still, "Spurcam," "Spurcus," "or even, "Spurious," "Sperno," or, "Spargo (i.e. "Spargere")," which he is most often witnessed. That is, until his Transformation, into a, "Real Boy."…”
~ “… Example in case of, "Spargere," within, 'Pinocchio', being…” ~
A. "Burglary"/"Housebreaking," when he steals a wig from, "Gepetto (Hebrew Name, "Joseph")," and, B. "Rumorem Spargere," or, "Spreading Rumours..." When he misleads by falsity."
“… Now, when Claus makes a toy, it is in the Woodwork, as we all know, but as we have previously sought to understand, some Wood is Alive, some Wood is Dead, and some takes on New Life.
Thus... As for the, "Wood," of, "Yggdrasil," we'll leave it at that for now…”
But why does Santa always have Ash and Ice? ... Do NOT even mention it!..."
*STORY PLOT:
A Black Magic Deal, had been dealt in, by a kindly old man, to a novice in his service. The question being, what good did it pose, for anyone in the realm of Hallelujah?
The Weapon of Smoke...
What are the odds? What will this young man be battling, and what's happening with the times?
…
Firstly, sacrifices being made of the cherished good of olden, for hierarchical precalls of evil.
The dawning of the next age. Hence, it is a, "Keep the Light," story.
It is to be rated, as a tale of smoking, for readers in an age when smoking is prohibited and one can only dream (2035 and on).
Andrew, the author, squares off demons in a fictional literature, and has it out with new, "precedential," sciences for being too dangerous.
Example: • Alchemy was bad, chemistry is good - we know this, one is founded. • Astrology was bad, astronomy is good - we also know this, one is founded. • Biology was good, but trans genetics is always bad.
Transgenetics uses chemistry in biology, deigning it forbidden. But how?
Working on the DNA, and treating humans with a, "Philosopher's Stone," destroys God's Sanctum or Temple. No Temple of God requires a No-Man, on an Earth meant for God's Providence.
More by the Mundi is only Mund in the Mordem if you can't fit Heaven in, as Kneelers still came first, and Kneiters (Titans), take too much from Heaven, for their last just desserts, of being too big and overall many. Men of God, uphold Gods temple, which upholds service for Heaven, which in turn blesses Nature, even though, God, "may," not.
Falling Men to Spirits of Nature, buys out the price of Man, and Good in the World, for the old Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, even post Babylon.
Spirits selling these secrets, leave Devil's in the details, as nought can then prevent Jinn from engulfing the richness of people's souls when the people's bodies become made by none better than a jinn writ and remaining human strains prove only yoke.
If the Scripture untethers from the People, God still Stands, and the World Clock will only mete, in waves, where the carn is as a, "jern ("iron"/"yarn")," and knit and crochet, just won’t fit, for the, "favoured fabric," anymore.
In mankind, witchcraft, sorcery and diabols unspeakable, are real.
Andrew speaks out, because if man is a slave to a spirit of a design unheiring, no other temple serves God.
Moral: Heaven has Refined Ideals, Where, Titans Thresh All's Karmic Wheels. The Djinni, as such, sound a Din, But, Jesus had His Supper in. As Many Giants, leave the Earth, Remember He who, “partied,” First. Creator’s Heaven has a Gate, But The Three, "Fates," wove a Temp, “Late.”
(i.e. The, "Moirae" lost all their eyes but for one of Apher's).
‘The Book Of Right’.
'Route, "Capernaum"'.
"Lucifer," was born to, "Cephalus." "Cephalus'," name, means, "Head."
"Cephalus'," name implies, that not only is he a Male Figure as the Head of a Family, but none other than an, "Halus," which means, "Invisible," "Refined," and/or, a, "Spirit," if not a Head of, "-lus," (indicating some form of, "Plant").
*A, "Head," is commonly referred to, nowadays, by the word, "Cap."
"Cephalus," may be transliterated, "Képhalos," and after that, "Kephalē," or even, "Keblē."
It could be quite easy to assume, that omitting the vocal fricatives, at the beginning of the word, "Keblē," led someone to create the name, "Iblis," for, "Lucifer," or, "Lucifer's Head."
We know that, "Satan," was erroneously replaced by, "Lucifer," in the, 'Vulgate Translation', of the, 'Hebrew Bible', but more than likely, because he still bore some characteristics of the, "Devil."
As a separate analogy in point, however, there is, "Lu," 'Capernaum', or, "Route of, 'Capernaum'," which is also known as, 'Beit Netofa'.
The, "Route," "Jesus of Nazareth," walked through from, 'Gaza', is known for housing some of, "David's," finest men, though also, being cursed by, "Jesus," in Scripture. It's meaning of, "Netophah," or, "Taphath (Simply, "A Dripping")," is likely where Lucifer gets his name of, "Rain Light."
This is, due to the Valley of, 'Capernaum', and it's literal, "Capernaum," which means, "Ruin and Clutter," though it is still to, "Bear Light," and implicates the Saviour's Walk there.
Therefore, "Light Bearing," becomes more alike to a, "Valley"/"Place Name," not only, "A Candle." If what we know about the, "Trail," or, "Lu," is that it bore, "Jesus Christ"/"The Saviour," in his travels, then, "Lūx Ferō," or, "Light Bearer," and, "Rain Light," themselves, become symbolic of none other than The Valley Christ walked, and Christ, as Wroth."
Ben got hit in the head, down at the Prefecture, and the Centaurs were going to haul him out and feed him to the Amphibe-colts, but instead, a man named Era, sent for his body and turned him over to Fang Vo Ejje for an Essential Essence Dedaction.
She was paid by Era, who then mixed Ben’s Essence in with some Grotto Clay and Fanged Stone Dentures.
Leaving him alone in a Grotto, he would pay Ben a visit, oh… well, sometime later. Ben had to have time and space, to get used to his rebirth. Also Era would bring gifts. He treated him, as though, a son.
Era was a, “Vampire,” Physician.
‘Neth.
…
Vampires, have been found to exist in many types, whether ætheric, carnal, mantic, neth, psychic, or sanguine.
• Ætheric Vampires Prey on Spirit, • Carnal Vampires Lust after Fleshly or Worldly Concerns,
• Mantic Vampires are attracted to Channels, Rapports, or Halls of the Dead, as Spirits, • Neth/Nest, Live In/Off The Host, as Brooding Parasites, • Psychic/Para-Psychic Vampires, are Mental Taxers by Extremity, • And Sanguine, are those, which Prey on or Deal only with Actual Blood.
Meanwhile, their affiliations as Romantic, Caste, or merely Cultural, have rarely been? Christian, no matter how Christ-Centric.
…
The symbology of the Vampire, while not to be dismissed as another Legend, or confused with mere Myth, is really a Coded Message.
While it does its best to remain hidden, the Truth of the Vampire actually exists in a Christian Allegory. Here, I will provide a brief exposé on it.
This introspective Label into their realm of the Dissonant, is provided to fit, as per Canon Address.
…
Firstly, the creature most frequently associated with the Vampire, is the Bat.
The reason why, is because, the Bat indicates a suspended or inverted view of reality. Also, because they are creatures of the dark, with nocturnal habits.
…
While wild penchants feature among the detailing of Vampire History, there is little about them that we don’t have, already known.
That is, unless one of us has them in, for the realm of how we would be in for that know. Then, things tend to play out that way.
That said, The World is for The Vampire, and The Vampire, not for Heaven.
…
‘Symbology’.
The Vampire's own avoidance of this World, pertains to a few minor points. Although, they are hunters and stalkers after the rights of men, women, and children, there are select items they avoid, each with it’s own Attributive Symbology.
…
The Christian Holy Bible, of course, as The True Word of God.
The Crucifix, as the symbol of Christ’s ransoming sacrifice on Calvary.
Daylight, for it’s representing The Light of the Sovereign.
The use of, “Holy Water,” is a symbol of Baptism and Making Clean and New.
Stakes, which symbolize the Softening of Hardened Hearts.
Nails, symbolizing Christ’s being nailed to the Tree.
And, Garlic, as a symbol of warding off the Evil Eye.
All these, being symbols of the Faith.
…
‘The Policy’.
“Decapitation,” where used in Vampire Lore, represents keeping one's own mind above material matters.
The Pouring out of Rice, as Author Anne Rice’s name would seem to imply, was a folk practice intended to keep Vampires at bay, in truth suggesting that they were more calculating than considerate of their hearts, because they would stop to count it out of compulsion.
“Burning with Fire,” meant setting afire with Holy Passion.
No Reflection in Mirrors, was due to their having no Light Of The Sovereign.
Their habit of, “Laying in a Coffin,” was because the Coffin is a place of rest for the Dead and Vampires were not allowed through Anyone’s Doorways, but for when they were Welcomed In. In the Land of the Living, Death Rests, except for when Death Knocks. If Death Knocks, which they are, they might then open up a Coffin Door by a Rapport.
However, as they too, are not altogether Immortal, thus the Coffin represents anyone resting under God’s label of, “The Dead,” respecting ties to the Supernatural, as the, “Undead.”
…
Drinking and Bloodshed, or what more, Drinking of Shed Blood, was the Practice of Pagans of The Old World.
These Pagans (Canaanites), were labeled as Dogs.
Hence, depictions of People with Dog-Shaped Heads, began to become more Prevalent, even with Larger Canine Teeth. The Medical Condition for someone with a Dog-Shaped Head, is known today as, “Cynocephaly.”
In hastily moving along with this Label, one might attribute that trait of Lycans or Werewolves, to Vampires or Leeches, as well, but there IS still a difference. Although, a Canaanite was simply an UnJew.
…
In respect to The Pagan Shedding of Life Blood for Consumption, while meriting the Judaical Teachings (in light of this), Jewish Tradition held, that to avoid Blood Consumption, meant that, when a God of Promise Saves you from Bloodshed your Sacred Teaching becomes to Revere Life and Not Take It for Granted.
Thus, it was said that our Life, Or rather Spirit or Soul, existed in the Blood, because the Jews who lived through the Plagues during the Passover in Egypt, were saved from having the lives of their firstborn taken, by marking their doorways with the Blood of a Lamb.
This, being not known to everyone (for some people believe that the Jews were never enslaved), due to Gold being found on-site at the Archaeological Digs, in Egypt.
Though, it must actually be read in on, that the Holy Bible (Exodus 12:35-6), says that the Egyptians offered it to them, sometimes more than graciously (out of God Fear), during The Time of the Plagues.
…
Now, in Judaical Tradition, Blood is not to be ingested, even apart from the above reasoning, because of the Health Complications it can cause.
Problems such as excess Iron Content in the Blood, Blood Disease, and Obesity, may also occur, because of it.
Vampiric Flying, is an example of the Proud Nature taking over, for they Fly as one does in Heated Anger, or in Contempt, aiming to set things in Disarray or to Destroy.
Other evidences, which they are known to make their own example of Flying by, when not by the Dead, are as though Witches, and the Flying thereof, for many a Vampire has been known to fall to Alchemy, and Ensorcerizing.
…
As Spiritually-Relative Christian sensibilities, these points seem mere figurative notions, but their opposites are never to be taken as literally or seriously, for they lead to wayward acts aberrant to God strategy, even as though, in one’s staking on them, they too might be…
A Vampire!
…
All that aside, human babies have been born with fangs before, which may have caused nursing problems.
...

My name is Ted, and I know some of you will call bullshit on this, but I'm the most haunted man in the world. You know that kid from The Sixth Sense? I'd probably kill to be that lucky little bastard - the worst thing that happened to him was his therapist turning out to be a little more spooky than it first appeared.
Man, I'd kill for my life to have only been movie-level messed up. I have been haunted for as long as I can remember. I don't just see dead people - I live my life under psychological assault from them more or less 24/7, and have done ever since I can remember pretty much. I know why too, although I didn't learn that until I was an adult. Way too late, since it was after Sarah… yeah. We'll get to that though.
My earliest memory of a ghostly encounter was when I was just five years old. I unfortunately remember the day like it was yesterday. It's been years since it happened, but the memory is still crystal clear in my mind. I can still recall playing with my toys in my room, the feel of them in my hands, the sounds of Mom sobbing leaking through the floor from the living room below (it was just after everything came out about Dad, you see). I can picture it - the shining rays of sun piercing through the window from the normalcy beyond the glass, everything so peaceful to me despite the familial implosion playing out below. Thing is, the peace of a happy home wasn't the only thing about to be shattered.
I'd just finished stacking the last of my blocks when suddenly, out of nowhere, I saw her. The ghost of a little girl, standing there in the middle of my room. There was no warning, no sudden drop in temperature or ethereal hissing sound. The lights didn't dim, the sun from outside never faltered. Hell, the drapes didn't even flutter. I screamed of course. One minute I was alone, the next there was an obviously dead girl in the room with me. Had Mom not been dividing her attention between her third bottle of wine and burning photos of Dad, she'd probably have come up to investigate.
She didn't though. Nobody came to the rescue, a feeling I'd soon get used to. The girl who'd appeared was harrowing to my young mind, even without the context of adulthood and all the knowledge of just what man is capable of that comes with it. She was so small, so fragile-looking even to my tiny child self - like a porcelain doll that had been shattered and put back together, her clammy blueish skin lined with an irregular web of dark swollen veins. It was her eyes that haunted me most though.
Everything I needed to know about the girl was in those eyes. A far clearer picture of her fate than the swollen crack on her forehead or handprints on her neck could ever paint. They were so sad, so full of pain, that I couldn't look away. They seemed to be pleading with me, begging me to help her. Her hair was soaking wet, and water was dripping from it onto the floor. It was as if she had just come out of the bath, but one she'd been in far too long judging by the excessive pruning on her trembling fingers. Her clothes were soaked through as well, clinging to her tiny frame. It was as if she had drowned, and her body had been left to rot in the water.
I remember feeling a warmth in the seat of my pants. I wanted to run, but all I could manage after my initial scream was a soft whimpering. There was a smell coming off her, one my infant brain didn't yet know but would soon come to recognize and, well, let's just say it's a stench most morticians are familiar with.
I almost passed out from sheer terror when she opened her mouth to shriek at me. Not because of the sound she made, but because she couldn't make any sound at all - because the only thing that flew from between her lips was a wet, slimy paste that reeked of rotting fish.
Thankfully (I think), she vanished into thin air before the fear could kill me, leaving nothing but the sound of dripping water echoing in my ears. I've seen so many of them since, so many I don't even remember all of them, but you never forget your first, right? Her image has stayed with me all these years, even though I only ever saw her again once. I wish some of the others had been as rare, let me tell you.
Mom didn't hold it together for much longer after I saw the drowned girl. Everything that happened with Dad took it out of her too much. I obviously didn't find out the full extent of exactly how heavy a burden that was for her until much later. It was Mom that told me, although she was only able to do so after decades in Saint Dionysus. For most of my life I simply believed he'd walked out on her and the prospect of raising me alone after years being a financially dependent housewife broke her.
I only had the chance to tell Mom about the girl once before I was reclaimed by social services and became a burden of the state so-to-speak. Mom didn't really register what I was telling her then, but I can't really hold it against her. She had more than enough going on, and I think if I was in her shoes I'd believe the shrinks saying my kid was making it up to cope with everything too.
You're probably thinking that's exactly what happened too, huh? I wish. Would be great if this was just PTSD. Thanks to Sarah and everything I've learned since the drowned girl showed up in my room though, I know this is all too real. My "hallucinations" are anything but.
From that first world-upending encounter in my childhood home, I have been haunted by hordes of different ghosts, far too many to count, and always multiple daily. It would be debilitating, but I'm smart. I saw what happened to Mom after Dad was gone, and I was determined not to wind up the same way. When I was a kid they put my "hallucinations" down to trauma from the breakdown of the home and ending up in care blah blah blah. I played along, pretending I'd stopped seeing "the scary people" when I realised "if the grown ups know I can see them they'll send me to a bad hospital like Mommy, but one that's even worse". So I kept quiet, telling only those I trusted like Sarah… and now you guys, I guess.
But yeah, the ghosts kept coming. I've honestly seen so many by this point that I'm numb to all but the most horrific. It's an odd thing, the human mind. Mine is so calloused to certain… erm… "types", I guess, of restless deceased. I don't even notice the scores of car crash victims with their limbs all twisted and faces mangled anymore, or the bald and listless cancer patients who shuffle slowly down the streets talking to themselves in soft sobs. Some of the dead though, the most tragic of their number, will live rent-free on the inside of my eyelids until I die myself and join them.
For a few months when I was eight or nine I was targeted by the spectre of a young woman with a slashed throat - her eyes bulging and bloodshot, her presence was suffocating. She would appear outside my window each evening, her ghostly form dripping with blood, staring up at my window while she absent mindedly pulled and picked at the ever-fresh wound in her neck.
Then there was the man with the shattered skull, half his cranium obliterated for what I'm guessing was a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He would sit in the corner of my room, brains oozing out and dropping on the carpet with dull splats. Night after night when I was about 12 I'd bury myself in my pillow to try and drown out the creaking of him rocking back and forth. Every attempt to silence the incoherent muttering he made failed. I could never quite understand him, but the sound of his voice was like a sack full of kittens being hit with a sledgehammer.
And then there was the little boy with the broken neck, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. He would crawl across my ceiling, his ghostly limbs leaving bubbling handprints in the cheap plaster of the Marathon County orphanage architecture. I could hear his spine cracking with every movement, and it made me retch with disgust. I never knew what he wanted from me, but even when I'd ram my eyes shut and hide under the blankets I could feel his gaze like a weight around my soul, dragging me down into the depths of despair.
Each of these ghosts chipped away at my sanity, bit by bit. They wore me down, like a stone eroded by the relentless pounding of the waves. And I knew that there would be others, always others, waiting in the shadows to torment me. Thankfully, most of these aberrations only visited me over the course of a few months at most before growing bored with me as a victim. Some used to linger for much longer though. They were always the worst.
For example, there was the gazeless man who came to define my teenage years, the one whose twisted features still taint most of my memories of the time I spent in the Marathon County care system. He haunted me throughout my adolescence from the age of around fourteen, visiting me several times a week without fail until I was at least twenty three. And every time he appeared, my heart would race to the point of damn near bursting from my chest, just like I was five years old in that sunlit bedroom all over again. He was one of those that I was never prepared for, no matter how fucked up the ghosts I'd already seen that day were.
I still can't imagine the grotesque figure as a living human being. My mind just can't cogitate those empty eye sockets with their impossible stare once being full, once belonging to a soul with a body and life. The skin around them was torn and ragged, with marks and rough slices that were chillingly easy to attribute to human fingernails. The red rawness that was his face was covered in deep lacerations that oozed blood and pus, and his twisted, contorted features were frozen in a perpetual scream.
And oh, how he screamed. Every night, for hours on end, he would unleash a wordless howl that chilled me to the bone. It was a sound of pure agony and despair, and it echoed through my head long after he had vanished into the night. His presence was suffocating, and at one point he was singularly responsible for a lapse in resilience that made me feel like I was slowly losing my mind. I considered taking my own life on more than one occasion, just to escape his torment. Thankfully I had Sarah by then. If it wasn't for her then…
As I grew older, the longer-term ghosts became more frequent and more malevolent. There was the ghost of a crooked old woman who would emerge from the water near my feet whenever I ran a bath, beckoning me towards her with bony fingers before grabbing at my ankles. I learned pretty quick that baths weren't worth the risk, especially since I would wake up screaming and drenched in sweat for months after if she ever managed to touch me.
Then there was the summer when I was around 26 and the ghost of a teenage girl with her body raggedly missing from the navel down followed me around wherever I went. Literally everywhere - I'd wake up and go to sleep with her at the foot of my bed. I couldn't even go to the bathroom with her dragging herself along on her knuckles behind me. She never spoke, but whenever I made eye contact I could hear whispering in a language I couldn't quite recognize, right at the edge of my hearing. I learned to ignore her, but I could feel her watching me until she left, always waiting for me to let my guard down in a way I didn't quite understand. Then, one morning, I awoke to her milky eyes staring down at me, her nose inches from my own. I got a brief whiff of her putrid breath when - with no warning - she vanished, leaving me alone with soaked bed sheets and an uncomfortable muscular after-tension between my legs that I still have to try real hard not to dwell on.
I tried to ignore the ghosts, but they were always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for me. In adulthood I sought help from psychologists and psychiatrists, but they couldn't explain what was happening to me. Sarah and I had read about shared hallucinations you see and, for obvious reasons, we felt it worth looking into. Anything to make it stop. We'd both half-hoped they'd leave us alone once we grew up, like it was a childhood specific thing, but that copium wore off quick. The shrinks diagnosed me with schizophrenia and gave me a bunch of pills to ram down my throat. The drugs didn't stop the visitations from beyond, but I can't lie, they helped Sarah and I both numb our emotional response to them for a good while, which was something at least.
After a year or two of being too whacked out of my eyeballs to have any kind of real emotional response to them, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of comfort from their presence. They were always with me, even when no one else was. They were my constant companions, and in a messed up way, the only consistency in my rollercoaster life. However, there is one that stands out as the most painful and devastating of all - but for you to understand, I need to tell you about my wife, about Sarah.
The day I met Sarah was the first time I have a conscious memory of being happy, as corny as that sounds. I was just a scared kid, fresh off the heels of my father's actions going public and my mother's breakdown. I was lost, alone, and terrified. But then I saw her, and everything changed.
Sarah was sitting alone in the orphanage courtyard, staring up at the sky with a look of wonder on her face. Or, at least, she was alone from the perspective of the rest of the shadowy children in the concrete playground. I was drawn to her, like a moth to a flame because I knew the truth. As I got closer, I realized she was talking to someone. Someone I'd met before, about a year before I found myself at the Marathon County orphanage - a small girl with dripping hair and handprints on her neck. The ghost who visited me the exact day the police found Dad
I was too scared to speak at first, but Sarah looked up and met my eyes. And in that moment, I knew something special was happening. We both had the same connection to whatever awaited after death, and the fact that we could both see the same frail dripping spectre standing there amongst the living felt like an inexplicable miracle.
We spent hours talking that day, and every day after that. We were inseparable, two kids in a world that didn't understand us. We shared everything, our hopes, our fears, our dreams. And as we grew up together, I realized that I had fallen in love with her - and the only joy I can remember in all my years on Earth is the moment I learned she'd fallen in love with me too.
Our ability to see ghosts brought us closer than anything else could have. We could sense things that others couldn't, feel the presence of spirits around us. Being in each other's company was the only time we didn't feel alone, didn't feel like freaks. How could either of us ever have found anyone but each other? Sarah was the only person on the planet who understood my terror at the thought of the screaming eyeless man, because every time she'd sneak into my room in the Orphanage (or if I'd sneak into hers) she'd have to endure him screaming too.
Unlike me, Sarah never knew who her parents were, and I could tell that it was a wound that never quite healed. She'd been dumped at the Marathon County Orphanage as a baby, the only identification left with her being the birthmark on her chest. She was more or less born alone, I was forced into loneliness by Mom and Dad, but Sarah and I had each other, and that was enough - at least for a while. We were like two halves of the same whole, destined to be together.
Now, as I sit here alone, haunted not only by spirits but the knowledge that a piece of me is missing. Sarah was the only one who could make me feel like I wasn't alone, and now she's gone - taken from me too soon by a fate that I can't begin to understand. It's not like I've got anyone to share my grief with, either. Turns out seeing the dead wasn't the only problem we had.
Turns out that being able to see the dead has implications when it comes to creating life. Big implications. Turns out prematurely opening the door at the end of life, even a little, shuts the other door entirely. We longed to have children together, but every time Sarah became pregnant, our unborn child would die. Always at the same time too - exactly a day before the due date.
The first time it happened, we were devastated, but we put it down to the understandably-intense stress. When it happened again and again, we knew that something was wrong. Losing kids two and three was all the assurance we needed that our… condition, I guess, meant procreation was out of the question. The universe simply wouldn't allow it.
They came to her after the fourth was conceived, the one she was carrying when she… They would appear around her, you see, the three we lost, orbiting her like despairing mosquitos, crying and begging for her to save them, their twisted little faces dripping with eldritch slime as they howled…
They were still dancing around her body when the ambulance took her away.
The shrill tittering spewing from that trio of life-ended-prematurely almost broke me, despite my psyche being considerably tougher by my 30s. They did break Sarah. I found her one night slumped on my workbench in the garage, my power drill still whirring away the wet boney shrapnel from her temple. I lost without her, but not as lost as she herself became. I can't even take solace in fooling myself about Sarah's pain being over or some such bullshit, because even in death, she hasn't found peace. She comes to me now, just like the spirits we'd hold each other in the night to keep safe from as kids.
I know what you're thinking - this doesn't have a Romeo and Juliet ending. This isn't that kind of note. I knew, have always known, that if I joined Sarah I would be trapped in a world of pain and despair worse somehow than the one I've known all my life. As the years went by, I learned to live with the ghost of Sarah. She would appear to me from time to time, but I've had to ignore her, to push her away, to convince myself she's just a manifestation of my grief and pain.
I can't even bring myself to look at her as I'm writing this.
God, this is so fucked up. Why is this my fucking life?
Oh yeah.
Dad.
I mentioned that my first experience with the paranormal started when the truth about Dad came out. I never told you what truth, though. It's not something anyone wants to admit, and I didn't find out about him until just after Mom died.
Mom wasn't three bottles of wine deep at 10:00 AM that day because Dad had an affair, or walked out on her, or anything so mundane. No. Mom spent the rest of her life in a secure room at Saint Dionysus because her husband, and the father or her child, was the Marathon County Snatcher. You'd break too if you learned your spouse of eight years had abducted and killed over two dozen children.
Bet you're wondering what this has to do with the ghosts, huh? Well, his final victim came with unintended consequences, both for Dad and every male he'd ever sired or would sire, and any males they've sired or will sire, etc.
These kinds of things happen when you brutally kidnap, do unspeakable things to, then murder and dump the body of the teenage daughter of a local grocery store owner who - unbeknownst to anyone - is legitimately the herald of an unknowable dark entity, don't they?
Turns out that when you get an active serial killer and an active… whatever the fuck that cult was in the same town, shit will go sideways sooner or later. In this case, my life has been the sideways. My Dad was a sick fuck, and he picked his victims if he liked their eyes - so of coursen he'd been unable to resist the allure of peepers that sparkled with the intensity of a literal deity trapped within, even if he didn't know why. He probably didn't question it. She was just another victim to him.
As I said, sick fuck. He got what was coming to him though. He was in at least seven pieces when Sheriff Harwurst found his remains after they'd been dumped outside the station, according to Mom. Unfortunately, in addition to torturing Dad in ways so twisted the Police burned the Polaroids left with his body, the cult cursed his entire bloodline - including me.
It wasn't until Mon died when I was 45 that I learned the truth. I hadn't seen her since she was taken to Saint Dionysus, so long that they didn't even have contact details to reach me when the cancer took her. She appeared to me after death, explaining everything. She told me about the curse, the cult, Dad's darkness, about the unholy deity he'd unknowingly indulged his twisted urges on the vessel of…
As for how she knew, I wasn't the only one punished. Mom's torment wasn't in the world of the waking though. Hers came in her dreams, when the deity Dad had interfered with made her watch his crimes over and over, a punishment for her guilt by association.
I was shaken to my core. Everything suddenly made sense. But there was one missing piece of the puzzle - Sarah. She'd died long before Mom. I knew that we have to have shared the curse, that she also must have been connected in some way to this cult. With her gone I would never know the full truth. I could find out, but that would mean acknowledging her ghost isn't a figment of my imagination, and I'm just… I can't. Not yet.
Besides, for Sarah's ghost to talk it would have to stop weeping first, and it hasn't done that for 13 years.
I often wonder what might have been different if Sarah were still alive, if we could have uncovered the secrets of the curse together. Maybe even found a cure, or reversed it somehow. Sarah isn't still alive though, is she? She is gone, and I am left with only that which haunts me - and the ghosts.
I can't help but feel like a failure. For years, I've been obsessed with finding the cult. Of course I have - what else would I have done? I've spent countless hours poring over old police reports and scouring the internet for any hint of their existence. I even went so far as to hire a private investigator, but all to no avail.
I've come close, so close, to uncovering their secrets. There have been times when I thought I had finally stumbled upon a lead, only to have the trail go cold. It's as if they know that I'm hunting them, and they're always one step ahead. I can't shake the feeling that they're watching me, that they know what I'm up to and are laughing at my feeble attempts to stop them.
There was one thing though, one tangible link that I've found in my years of fruitless search. About a year ago I stumbled upon a photo that made my blood run cold. A Polaroid from a long-forgotten police report. It was a picture of my father's final victim, the young girl who had been marked as the vessel for their dark god. And in that same photo, I saw something that made my heart sink. The symbol on her forehead was the same as the birthmark on Sarah's chest.
I couldn't breathe. My mind was racing, trying to process the implications of what I had just seen. Was it possible that Sarah had also been marked as a vessel? Was that why she too could see ghosts, why she too was cursed like me?
I tried to push the thought away, to tell myself that it was just a coincidence, that there was no way that the cult could have gotten to Sarah. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The cult could have been searching for a vessel for years. What if Dad hadn't inadvertently ended their only attempt, merely their first successful one?
My greatest fear is that somewhere out there, the cult has Found another vessel, another innocent victim groomed to be the body for their dark god. That's not my problem though. My only problem is what happens once I've finished writing this, because once I'm done, I'm going to speak to Sarah for the first time in thirteen years, and I'll probably be joining her by the end of it. I'm sick of being haunted. Time to see how the other side lives.
Good luck.

First part of an original weird fiction narrative. Videos and mixed-media to come.
PREFACE: THE BLINDING OF LENG
​
Millions of years in the past, long before Earth became the Apple of God's Eye, the stars were still teeming with life. As the all-powerful Creator of Existence, God created many worlds and countless creatures to inhabit them. Each planet contained a morsel of His own Essence, and each planet contained peoples dedicated to worshiping and glorifying their Creator through prayers, rites, and rituals. Across all of space-time, the infinite worlds of God's Universe sang out glorious hymns of his power, thanking Him for all that was good and all that was grand.
From one sector of infinite Creation to another, trillions upon trillions of beings bowed to the Great Expanse and thanked God for the blessings He bestowed upon them. Upon each planet, the story was told a bit different, but the core concepts were the same. In His infinite wisdom, God created infinite life, stretching from one end of an unending, ever-expanding universe to the other, all as the product of His infinite and boundless love. If a starship could travel one trillion miles in any direction, this was not even a twinkling in His Eye--not even a centimeter to the Creator.
From His seat in Heaven, the infinite abode of the infinite Godhead, Jehovah watched over all He had wrought, over all He had in his infinite wisdom seen fit to produce from nothingness. Some planets He created using an evolutionary-type process of slow biological improvement, while others were snapped into existence fully-developed and in less than a blink of an eye. Even on planets that had not yet seen intelligent life of the highest order come about, as Earth before Adam, the cries and bleats and howls of the animals were a beautiful chorus of praise to the Grand Architect: to He who gave them life.
And in this time, this time before time, there were helpers for the Creator, those who He had created firstmost. These were the Angels, who took on bipedal forms in the image and likeness of their God frequently, but were initially forged as spinning wheels of eyes and wings. Of these angels, there were none so powerful and trusted in His sight as the Archangels Michael, Gabriel, and Lucifer. This trinity of beings worked for the glory and power of the Triune God and did his will across the universe, an infinite eternity serving the Creator of Existence. For millions upon millions of centuries, joy and happiness ruled the stars.
And during this time before time, millions of Earth years in the past, God created a new form of beings called the Leviathans. These creatures were not angels, but were made in His image, given enormous supernatural power and energy, and were presented the task of tending to God's astronomical gardens. Many Leviathans were so dedicated and so devout in their task and worship as Sector Guardians, so loving and mindful of those they were trusted with protecting and nurturing, that they were allowed to ascend and were transfigured into angels themselves. Israfil the Armorer, for one, rose to become the caretaker of Heaven's weapons and defenses.
During the Zildin Heresy, a group of neighboring planets rose up against God and declared that they would conquer Heaven. These people began worshiping their own Galactic High King as a deity and offered their sacrifices to him, including their young spawn. Zaazenach the Scorekeeper, the Leviathan in charge of this galaxy, was given the task by God of punishing these mortals for their abhorrent rejection of Good. He was joined by Leng, the oldest and most beautiful of all the Leviathans. Leng was the Messenger, and it was with him that God relayed messages to the Leviathan Host. Now Leng the Messenger, like most all of the beings created by God, had free will. Like other Leviathans, Leng dreamed of the day when he would finally ascend to the ranks of the Angels. But as eons passed into eternity, he grew more and more fearful that that day would never come. Surely, he schemed, if he could show how dedicated he was in this mission with Zaazenach, he would impress God and ascend at last.
Zaazenach dealt with the Heretics with mercy and honor. The infants and deficient were spared, as were those who resisted the High King and loved God, for they were never truly extinguished. But as Zaazenach moved with grace, Leng moved quickly and brutally. Rocks fell from the skies, water turned black and fetid, and the women and children--even in the temples of God--were crushed. The High King's Galactic Army was no match for either Leviathan, and most knelt before Zaazenach at his first appearance and begged for forgiveness. After much sacrifice and prayer, many were allowed to live. But Leng offered no chance for redemption, and as the soldiers of the High King cowed before him, refusing to even fight back, he unleashed his incredible psychic and telekinetic powers upon them, driving them mad and warping their minds until they burst like huge pustules. Leng delighted in scorching their planets into lifeless husk-worlds, unfit for any life.
God knew, of course, of Leng's brutality as soon as it occurred, and it brought Him deep pain and sorrow. Never should a being be exterminated without a chance of redemption, of returning to His flock, and He summoned Leng the Messenger to the Throne. Expecting to be rewarded, Leng immediately praised and thanked his God, his Creator, and said that all he had done was in His Name. Disgusted, God rendered him unable to move, unable to speak, and revealed the wrathful side of Himself that he sought so hard to let go unseen. Instead of promoting Leng, instead of praising him as a good and faithful servant, God told him what he had done was against the very essence of God's Will and Plan for All Life. Shocked and horrified, Leng felt his voice return and begged for forgiveness and another chance. But he secretly began to feel hate in his heart, as he watched Gabriel, Michael, and Lucifer stand to the side, gazing blankly on as the Lord of Hosts condemned his actions. He only wanted to be like them. He deserved to be like them. He would ascend, one way or another, he insisted to himself.
Now God saw fit (as per His own normal policy) to give Leng a second chance, even though Leng had not bestowed such mercy to those trusted in his own care. He would become the Sector Guardian of the Planet Tosora and its surrounding stars. If he governed with tolerance, compassion, and respect, he would earn himself back the good graces of Jehovah. To most Leviathans, this would be a simple task, one done with joy and love. But Leng was hardening his heart against God, and against Good. For a million years, Leng served as the Sector Guardian, steering God's little lab rats along, ushering in age after age of new generations of worshipers. These worshipers would die and ascend to Heaven and become favorites of God. While these roaches, these insects, these short-lived wastrels rejoiced in the company of God, Leng had to stand watch for ten thousand hundred centuries. Finally, his spirit began to snap, and he began to bring pestilence and undeserved tribulations to these decent beings. He began to use diseases to engineer mutations in what God had made, rendering these people sickly and mentally deficient, but also near-immortal. By the time they had seen thirty planetary rotations, these poor folk were ready to die, but they would live on in a miserable stasis state for millennia. The suffering was so great that finally, even without Leng conveying their emotions or bringing their prayers before Heaven, God learned of what was happening.
God dispatched Gabriel and Lucifer to Tosora to deal with Leng. Once, he had been considered for ascendancy, and had been far closer than he had thought himself to be, but now a Heavenly warrant was given to punish him in a fitting and just manner. He had rejected God's second chance, and now he would suffer the full consequences of his free will. When Gabriel and Lucifer arrived and held out the Scroll of Banishment, showing it to the renegade Leviathan, Leng cried out not in fear or sorrow, but in rage. He was done with these beings who were far more blessed and loved than he, be they angels or the peons he was supposed to be guarding. The despotic Messenger of God attempted to use a psychic blast against the archangels, but this merely blew them a few cosmic feet away before they recovered. As Gabriel read the Scroll, Lucifer easily grabbed Leng by his neck. This sent an Enochian shockwave through his system, causing Leng's eyes to explode from within. After the reading of the Scroll was complete, Lucifer dismembered the being formerly known as Leviathan Leng by plucking off his limbs, melting his once-beautiful face. Now with no name, Lucifer hurtled the creature into the Outer Darkness of empty space.
For a million lifetimes, the Faceless One flew through vast expanse of nothingness, his once-heavenly and now-limbless body distorting and contorting into a horrific serpentine form. In between galaxies like this, one could travel blindly for eternity without touching so much as an asteroid, such was and is the vastness of space. For a short time, the creature wailed and begged Jehovah for the forgiveness he had not granted others, but God knew him not and closed His ears to such cries. The sadistic Messenger of God now floated as blind as one could be in the cold, dark, empty expanse of eternity, an eternity without God and without Love itself. So much occurred in this time of cosmic isolation: God created the Earth, the apple of His Eye, Lucifer himself rebelled and was cast out during the War in Heaven, Mankind was created in the image and likeness of God, and through their free will, Mankind fell to sin, depravity, and war.
And so it was that in what Earth historians would know as the Early Bronze Age, a depraved and wicked Assyrian sorcerer known as Ashur-Rabi conducted experiments of telekinesis and psychic power to earn the respect of his earthly King. Calling upon all sorts of demoniacal spirits and out into the cosmos, the sorcerer used ritual sacrifices and cursed spells taught to him by Nephilim to cast a wide net into the spiritual realm. The Faceless One answered back, claiming to be a god that would bring great blessing to the Assyrian people if prayers were offered up to him. They called him Father Dagon, and through their combined efforts and prayers, the one-time Messenger of God hurtled through space, blind but drawn to their psychic energy. Through his psychic contact, the Faceless One learned of Earth, of Lucifer's fall, of the teeming hordes of unwashed and unrepentant sinners and occultists. Yes, the creature thought, this 'Earth' held promise.
When the being arrived, like an invisible shock wave of supernatural thunder, the oceans rose and the mountains trembled. Worshipers and cultists praised the name of this Serpent God who spoke to them in dreams and whispers in their minds. In North America, tribes began to worship the Feathered Serpent. In Africa, the most remote peoples sang songs about the arrival of a great python they called the Eyeless King. Dagon continued to be worshiped in Assyria, and was known as Enlil in Mesopotamia. As the warriors of ancient Israel created the Holy Land, murmurs were heard of pale European gentiles worshiping a great serpent known as Jörmungandr, the World-Eater. All these sects and cults seemed to believe that a colossal wormlike deity resided in the earth's core, turning the entire planet into a form of nest or stasis pod.
In its state of pseudo-hibernation, the Faceless One regained some strength and sapped the psychic energy of its cultists. Century upon century, worship of the being continued in some form. By the Middle Ages, it was growing more powerful. Legendary 11th century Italian alchemist Alessandro Abate of Rome, who claimed to be the physical incarnation of the mythical figure "Hermes Trismagistus" to his small group of devotees, published several dark works while supposedly in contact with an entity that he referred to as the "Crowned and Conquering King." Among these were such chestnuts as The Book of Lost Covenants, The Principles of Ruin, and The Names of Phantoms. But around 1066, the year of the Norman invasion of England under William the Conqueror, Abate was ferreted out of the ruins of the Great Colosseum, and he and his followers arrested for sorcery and heresy.​
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As they sat in the darkest dungeon, Abate went to work on his next masterpiece, a tome that would become known as the Vermis Mysteriis, or "Mysteries of the Worm." Not given any writing materials in his cell, Abate took to catching rats and slowly turning their skins into a form of velum, after singeing the hair off with candles. For a pen, he used various bones and detritus, and for ink, a mixture of rat blood and his own bodily fluid. The book was blasphemous in its nature, and nearly unspeakable in its contents. Other prisoners avoided him more and more as the book neared completion and the day of his execution drew nearer. At last, one night, Abate claimed his "great work" was done, and that all glory from his wretched tome should go to the Crowned and Conquering King. The night before his execution, the book mysteriously disappeared from his cell. The next morning, as he stood facing the pyre on which he would be executed, he began to laugh and behave as if possessed by some dark entity. He flung guards and soldiers left and right, all while cackling about "seeing at last."​
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"For ten hundred thousand lifetimes, I have been blinded, but now I see. I see the folly of God's handiwork again in this pitiful place of whoremasters and false prophets! Throw me in the flames if you can, for this meat means nothing to me. I shall come into another as but a change of breeches. Kill me, if you dare! But first, let me have my entertainment this day!"
- Alessandro Abate​
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After a many deaths and broken bones, the sorcerer's body collapsed with a dozen corssbow bolts through it, with two through the heart. There was no reason the man should have been able to bear such abuse and still breathe, let alone send Roman soldiers hurtling through walls and scaffolding. The Church hushed up the matter, and most who bore witness to the possession seemingly agreed to never discuss the events again. The only written record of this matter is laid down in the Historia Vermis Cultus, (The History of the Worm Cult), of which only two copies would exist by the Victorian era. One was held in Oxford University Library, and another was kept in the secret library deep within the Vatican Vaults.​
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Ia! Ia! Jörmungandr! O Mundi comedentis! O pater Dagon! O Ieiunus Unus! Coronata et Victrix Rex! Ia! Ia! Exaudi preces nostras. Ostendat nobis formido tua veram potentiam; et evigilas et reges hunc mundum aeternus et umquam.
Ia! Ia! Jörmungandr! Oh, World-Eater! Oh, Father Dagon! Oh, Faceless One! The Crowned and Conquering King! Ia! Ia! Hear our prayers. May your dread form show us true power, and may you awaken and rule this world forever and ever.
- The Wormist Prayer as written in the Ritus Communia Vermis Dei (Common Rites of the God-Worm) (1478) ​
As the Middle Ages rolled into the Renaissance, and the Church's stranglehold on society began to wane in much of Europe, interest in the Vermis Mysteriis grew and grew. Through its sinister mutterings in the night to willing ears, to its cultists assembling in the forests and caves to beckon its awakening, the Faceless One gained strength. In 1492, the same year as Columbus' fateful and blundering voyage, the Worm Cult began to unite around a central figure for the first time since Abate's execution centuries earlier. Oudin Lecerf, a French-speaker living in the Holy Roman Empire, was chased out of the Rhineland Palatinate by Witch-hunters, and he was accompanied in this flight by no less than several dozen cultists. These acolytes were willing to fight to the death to defend him and the ancient original copies of Abate's work that he had procured through unknown means. Lecerf had been promised by the Worm that he would be given immortality in exchange for doing his will. For his service to the slumbering titan, Lecerf would be shown the full extent of dark power and black magic, and the boon of eternal life would be his. ​
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From a new base in southeastern England, in a small fishing hamlet called Innsmouth, Lecerf and his cultists chanted strange prayers and performed heinous acts daily, begging and pleading for the Worm to awaken from its slumber. Lecerf, one night, was possessed by the spirit of the Worm to some degree and disappeared deep into a cave system. There, he supposedly encountered an ethereal being who embraced him in a whirling vortex of energy. Lecerf became the first true vampyre, functionally immortal as long as a steady supply of blood and psychic energy could be had. Through a ritual taught to him by the being in the cave, he could render certain of his followers into vampyres as well. Simply biting or feeding off the psychic energy of a person was not enough to turn them, but rather, it was essential that the thrall be willing and eager, and certain rites had to be performed. This led to the creation of Lecerf's blasphemous Thirteen Disciples. They roamed across the world, exploring, recruiting other cultists, and bringing glory to the Worm's name. However, they all agreed that the number of vampyres should remain at thirteen, to secure their power and hold over their apprentices and followers. They were only useful until one unlocked immortality. They could then be thrown away like used toys. The only exception was to be if one of their number should perish somehow, a new vampyre would be created to take the place of the fallen.
But Lecerf was not satisfied, and as decades grew into centuries, he began to become bored with immortality. He wanted supreme power, and he wanted to become the vessel itself of the Worm, just as Abate had. During the Seven Years War, known in America as the French and Indian War, the cultists hired themselves out to the French, scalping and feeding on British caravans, settlers, and soldiers. These invincible soldiers simply used the job to bring coin into the coffers of the cult, and to provide luxuries and increasingly effective equipment. Some of the Disciples began to mutter about using their powers and money to create "a dominion of our own" in North America. Surely, even if the whole world united against them, they could not fail. But Lecerf warned them that the time was not yet right, and the Worm demanded further service.
As the Disciples began to formulate a plan to dispose of Lecerf, his days became drenched in paranoia. Only one vampyre, since their creation, had been killed. A Frenchman named Lambertus Lajoie had, in 1666, been living in their European hub of Innsmouth when a group of Puritans had accused him of devil-worship, a most serious charge at the time. A silver rapier sword drenched in holy oil had been run through his chest and the body burned, the first victim of the "Innsmouth Brethren" Puritan band that would make hunting them and Worm Cultists their careers and would expand far beyond England. Lajoie was replaced by Englishman Seth Swann. Although it scalded their hands to even hold, the Disciples acquired such a rapier and a bottle of oil blessed by a priest and began to discuss where they should betray their Grandmaster. On October 31, 1776, as Lecerf came into the stone circle in their Moose Factory headquarters to pray, the Disciples surrounded him, and he knew what they planned to do.​
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"Fools! Deceivers! I know of what you plan to do, for I have long suspected your disloyalty, and long have I read your thoughts. I now invoke the Crowned and Conquering King to inhabit my form as I have long-prayed in fever-soaked nights of ritual and rite, and I will destroy this entire group of cack-handed jackals and start afresh with those who know their places! Ia! Ia! Oh, Father Dagon! Bring me victory! For I am worthy of becoming your eternal abode!"
- Grandmaster Oudin Lecerf​
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After a moment, Lecerf began to convulse violently and flail his limbs like a ragdoll. His eyes rolled to the back of their sockets. His very blood vessels seemed to pulse and almost glow underneath his pale skin like a creature all of their own. He swatted at the ranks of deceivers, sending the vampyres flying through the air. With no effort whatsoever, he grabbed the Russian who called himself Eldon Dantalion, the Disciple he had trusted most, and used his bare hand to crush his skull in. Immortal, Dantalion hit the ground like a sack of rocks, experiencing pain unlike any that could be imagined as his flesh and bone began the rapid process of healing.
As the others rushed him and tried to run him through with the silver sword, he howled and unleashed a burst of visible psychic energy from his white eyes, severing Andre Andras' legs from his body and sending the rapier tumbling to the ground. The entire ground was shaking by this point, and the stones of the prayer circle were falling to the ground like they weighed almost nothing. Irishman Murphy Vear found himself partially crushed under one of the stones, all while Lecerf beat his face in with his bare hand. When Ahab Abraxas attempted to push Lecerf away from Vear, the possessed Grandmaster merely laughed demonically before unhinging his jaw unnaturally wide. He began to gorge himself on the Welshman, like a python devouring a mouse, before spitting the bloodied, mangled immortal mess of Abraxas out with violent force. Abraxas sailed high into the air before being dashed on the ground like a bug.
All while he destroyed his Disciples over and over for their disloyalty, constantly sparing them just short of actual death, the power which he had so long sought was beginning to overwhelm and overheat his body. His vessels became bulged and black, his nose, eyes, and ears bled like a fountain, and his limbs seemed like they were going to blow off of his trunk. At last, after nearly two hours of insane battle, the Grandmaster of the Worm Cult began to wax thin. As the plotters all laid destroyed and beaten, Lecerf could be seen staggering in the moonlight, blood vessels bursting all over his body. But he spoke one final time, not in his own voice, but in the sickening, charnel voice of the creature once known as Leng, Messenger of God:​
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"Never doubt my power as your King, and never attempt to betray me again! This isn't about your inconsequential lives nor your trivial baubles and piles of coins. This is about a new era, one in which I shall reign forever over this wretched planet. This battle was good fun, but this vessel is not worthy of me. When I am ready to appear, you shall know the time. And you shall rejoice, lest I strike you all down with furious anger. So let it be written!"
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At that, the head of Oudin Lacerf exploded like a shrapnel shell on a battlefield, flecking the blades of grass and all the flowers of the meadow with his black blood. As the sun dawned, the battered vampyres pieced themselves back together, quite literally, and crawled back to their lodge. There, they agreed to never again let any one man become Cult Grandmaster. No one vampyre should posses the knowledge and power that Lecerf did for so long. They proclaimed themselves the "Vampyre Lords," and wrote a charter that stated no new vampyres would be created, nor would they attempt to invoke the Worm again, for they were very afraid. ​

Part of an original narrative and mixed-media universe I am constructing. More to follow. Constructive feedback and discussion welcomed.
PREFACE: THE BLINDING OF LENG
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Millions of years in the past, long before Earth became the Apple of God's Eye, the stars were still teeming with life. As the all-powerful Creator of Existence, God created many worlds and countless creatures to inhabit them. Each planet contained a morsel of His own Essence, and each planet contained peoples dedicated to worshiping and glorifying their Creator through prayers, rites, and rituals. Across all of space-time, the infinite worlds of God's Universe sang out glorious hymns of his power, thanking Him for all that was good and all that was grand.
From one sector of infinite Creation to another, trillions upon trillions of beings bowed to the Great Expanse and thanked God for the blessings He bestowed upon them. Upon each planet, the story was told a bit different, but the core concepts were the same. In His infinite wisdom, God created infinite life, stretching from one end of an unending, ever-expanding universe to the other, all as the product of His infinite and boundless love. If a starship could travel one trillion miles in any direction, this was not even a twinkling in His Eye--not even a centimeter to the Creator.
From His seat in Heaven, the infinite abode of the infinite Godhead, Jehovah watched over all He had wrought, over all He had in his infinite wisdom seen fit to produce from nothingness. Some planets He created using an evolutionary-type process of slow biological improvement, while others were snapped into existence fully-developed and in less than a blink of an eye. Even on planets that had not yet seen intelligent life of the highest order come about, as Earth before Adam, the cries and bleats and howls of the animals were a beautiful chorus of praise to the Grand Architect: to He who gave them life.
And in this time, this time before time, there were helpers for the Creator, those who He had created firstmost. These were the Angels, who took on bipedal forms in the image and likeness of their God frequently, but were initially forged as spinning wheels of eyes and wings. Of these angels, there were none so powerful and trusted in His sight as the Archangels Michael, Gabriel, and Lucifer. This trinity of beings worked for the glory and power of the Triune God and did his will across the universe, an infinite eternity serving the Creator of Existence. For millions upon millions of centuries, joy and happiness ruled the stars.
And during this time before time, millions of Earth years in the past, God created a new form of beings called the Leviathans. These creatures were not angels, but were made in His image, given enormous supernatural power and energy, and were presented the task of tending to God's astronomical gardens. Many Leviathans were so dedicated and so devout in their task and worship as Sector Guardians, so loving and mindful of those they were trusted with protecting and nurturing, that they were allowed to ascend and were transfigured into angels themselves. Israfil the Armorer, for one, rose to become the caretaker of Heaven's weapons and defenses.
During the Zildin Heresy, a group of neighboring planets rose up against God and declared that they would conquer Heaven. These people began worshiping their own Galactic High King as a deity and offered their sacrifices to him, including their young spawn. Zaazenach the Scorekeeper, the Leviathan in charge of this galaxy, was given the task by God of punishing these mortals for their abhorrent rejection of Good. He was joined by Leng, the oldest and most beautiful of all the Leviathans. Leng was the Messenger, and it was with him that God relayed messages to the Leviathan Host. Now Leng the Messenger, like most all of the beings created by God, had free will. Like other Leviathans, Leng dreamed of the day when he would finally ascend to the ranks of the Angels. But as eons passed into eternity, he grew more and more fearful that that day would never come. Surely, he schemed, if he could show how dedicated he was in this mission with Zaazenach, he would impress God and ascend at last.
Zaazenach dealt with the Heretics with mercy and honor. The infants and deficient were spared, as were those who resisted the High King and loved God, for they were never truly extinguished. But as Zaazenach moved with grace, Leng moved quickly and brutally. Rocks fell from the skies, water turned black and fetid, and the women and children--even in the temples of God--were crushed. The High King's Galactic Army was no match for either Leviathan, and most knelt before Zaazenach at his first appearance and begged for forgiveness. After much sacrifice and prayer, many were allowed to live. But Leng offered no chance for redemption, and as the soldiers of the High King cowed before him, refusing to even fight back, he unleashed his incredible psychic and telekinetic powers upon them, driving them mad and warping their minds until they burst like huge pustules. Leng delighted in scorching their planets into lifeless husk-worlds, unfit for any life.
God knew, of course, of Leng's brutality as soon as it occurred, and it brought Him deep pain and sorrow. Never should a being be exterminated without a chance of redemption, of returning to His flock, and He summoned Leng the Messenger to the Throne. Expecting to be rewarded, Leng immediately praised and thanked his God, his Creator, and said that all he had done was in His Name. Disgusted, God rendered him unable to move, unable to speak, and revealed the wrathful side of Himself that he sought so hard to let go unseen. Instead of promoting Leng, instead of praising him as a good and faithful servant, God told him what he had done was against the very essence of God's Will and Plan for All Life. Shocked and horrified, Leng felt his voice return and begged for forgiveness and another chance. But he secretly began to feel hate in his heart, as he watched Gabriel, Michael, and Lucifer stand to the side, gazing blankly on as the Lord of Hosts condemned his actions. He only wanted to be like them. He deserved to be like them. He would ascend, one way or another, he insisted to himself.
Now God saw fit (as per His own normal policy) to give Leng a second chance, even though Leng had not bestowed such mercy to those trusted in his own care. He would become the Sector Guardian of the Planet Tosora and its surrounding stars. If he governed with tolerance, compassion, and respect, he would earn himself back the good graces of Jehovah. To most Leviathans, this would be a simple task, one done with joy and love. But Leng was hardening his heart against God, and against Good. For a million years, Leng served as the Sector Guardian, steering God's little lab rats along, ushering in age after age of new generations of worshipers. These worshipers would die and ascend to Heaven and become favorites of God. While these roaches, these insects, these short-lived wastrels rejoiced in the company of God, Leng had to stand watch for ten thousand hundred centuries. Finally, his spirit began to snap, and he began to bring pestilence and undeserved tribulations to these decent beings. He began to use diseases to engineer mutations in what God had made, rendering these people sickly and mentally deficient, but also near-immortal. By the time they had seen thirty planetary rotations, these poor folk were ready to die, but they would live on in a miserable stasis state for millennia. The suffering was so great that finally, even without Leng conveying their emotions or bringing their prayers before Heaven, God learned of what was happening.
God dispatched Gabriel and Lucifer to Tosora to deal with Leng. Once, he had been considered for ascendancy, and had been far closer than he had thought himself to be, but now a Heavenly warrant was given to punish him in a fitting and just manner. He had rejected God's second chance, and now he would suffer the full consequences of his free will. When Gabriel and Lucifer arrived and held out the Scroll of Banishment, showing it to the renegade Leviathan, Leng cried out not in fear or sorrow, but in rage. He was done with these beings who were far more blessed and loved than he, be they angels or the peons he was supposed to be guarding. The despotic Messenger of God attempted to use a psychic blast against the archangels, but this merely blew them a few cosmic feet away before they recovered. As Gabriel read the Scroll, Lucifer easily grabbed Leng by his neck. This sent an Enochian shockwave through his system, causing Leng's eyes to explode from within. After the reading of the Scroll was complete, Lucifer dismembered the being formerly known as Leviathan Leng by plucking off his limbs, melting his once-beautiful face. Now with no name, Lucifer hurtled the creature into the Outer Darkness of empty space.
For a million lifetimes, the Faceless One flew through vast expanse of nothingness, his once-heavenly and now-limbless body distorting and contorting into a horrific serpentine form. In between galaxies like this, one could travel blindly for eternity without touching so much as an asteroid, such was and is the vastness of space. For a short time, the creature wailed and begged Jehovah for the forgiveness he had not granted others, but God knew him not and closed His ears to such cries. The sadistic Messenger of God now floated as blind as one could be in the cold, dark, empty expanse of eternity, an eternity without God and without Love itself. So much occurred in this time of cosmic isolation: God created the Earth, the apple of His Eye, Lucifer himself rebelled and was cast out during the War in Heaven, Mankind was created in the image and likeness of God, and through their free will, Mankind fell to sin, depravity, and war.
And so it was that in what Earth historians would know as the Early Bronze Age, a depraved and wicked Assyrian sorcerer known as Ashur-Rabi conducted experiments of telekinesis and psychic power to earn the respect of his earthly King. Calling upon all sorts of demoniacal spirits and out into the cosmos, the sorcerer used ritual sacrifices and cursed spells taught to him by Nephilim to cast a wide net into the spiritual realm. The Faceless One answered back, claiming to be a god that would bring great blessing to the Assyrian people if prayers were offered up to him. They called him Father Dagon, and through their combined efforts and prayers, the one-time Messenger of God hurtled through space, blind but drawn to their psychic energy. Through his psychic contact, the Faceless One learned of Earth, of Lucifer's fall, of the teeming hordes of unwashed and unrepentant sinners and occultists. Yes, the creature thought, this 'Earth' held promise.
When the being arrived, like an invisible shock wave of supernatural thunder, the oceans rose and the mountains trembled. Worshipers and cultists praised the name of this Serpent God who spoke to them in dreams and whispers in their minds. In North America, tribes began to worship the Feathered Serpent. In Africa, the most remote peoples sang songs about the arrival of a great python they called the Eyeless King. Dagon continued to be worshiped in Assyria, and was known as Enlil in Mesopotamia. As the warriors of ancient Israel created the Holy Land, murmurs were heard of pale European gentiles worshiping a great serpent known as Jörmungandr, the World-Eater. All these sects and cults seemed to believe that a colossal wormlike deity resided in the earth's core, turning the entire planet into a form of nest or stasis pod.
In its state of pseudo-hibernation, the Faceless One regained some strength and sapped the psychic energy of its cultists. Century upon century, worship of the being continued in some form. By the Middle Ages, it was growing more powerful. Legendary 11th century Italian alchemist Alessandro Abate of Rome, who claimed to be the physical incarnation of the mythical figure "Hermes Trismagistus" to his small group of devotees, published several dark works while supposedly in contact with an entity that he referred to as the "Crowned and Conquering King." Among these were such chestnuts as The Book of Lost Covenants, The Principles of Ruin, and The Names of Phantoms. But around 1066, the year of the Norman invasion of England under William the Conqueror, Abate was ferreted out of the ruins of the Great Colosseum, and he and his followers arrested for sorcery and heresy.​
As they sat in the darkest dungeon, Abate went to work on his next masterpiece, a tome that would become known as the Vermis Mysteriis, or "Mysteries of the Worm." Not given any writing materials in his cell, Abate took to catching rats and slowly turning their skins into a form of velum, after singeing the hair off with candles. For a pen, he used various bones and detritus, and for ink, a mixture of rat blood and his own bodily fluid. The book was blasphemous in its nature, and nearly unspeakable in its contents. Other prisoners avoided him more and more as the book neared completion and the day of his execution drew nearer. At last, one night, Abate claimed his "great work" was done, and that all glory from his wretched tome should go to the Crowned and Conquering King. The night before his execution, the book mysteriously disappeared from his cell. The next morning, as he stood facing the pyre on which he would be executed, he began to laugh and behave as if possessed by some dark entity. He flung guards and soldiers left and right, all while cackling about "seeing at last."​
"For ten hundred thousand lifetimes, I have been blinded, but now I see. I see the folly of God's handiwork again in this pitiful place of whoremasters and false prophets! Throw me in the flames if you can, for this meat means nothing to me. I shall come into another as but a change of breeches. Kill me, if you dare! But first, let me have my entertainment this day!"
- Alessandro Abate​
After a many deaths and broken bones, the sorcerer's body collapsed with a dozen corssbow bolts through it, with two through the heart. There was no reason the man should have been able to bear such abuse and still breathe, let alone send Roman soldiers hurtling through walls and scaffolding. The Church hushed up the matter, and most who bore witness to the possession seemingly agreed to never discuss the events again. The only written record of this matter is laid down in the Historia Vermis Cultus, (The History of the Worm Cult), of which only two copies would exist by the Victorian era. One was held in Oxford University Library, and another was kept in the secret library deep within the Vatican Vaults.​
Ia! Ia! Jörmungandr! O Mundi comedentis! O pater Dagon! O Ieiunus Unus! Coronata et Victrix Rex! Ia! Ia! Exaudi preces nostras. Ostendat nobis formido tua veram potentiam; et evigilas et reges hunc mundum aeternus et umquam.
Ia! Ia! Jörmungandr! Oh, World-Eater! Oh, Father Dagon! Oh, Faceless One! The Crowned and Conquering King! Ia! Ia! Hear our prayers. May your dread form show us true power, and may you awaken and rule this world forever and ever.
- The Wormist Prayer as written in the Ritus Communia Vermis Dei (Common Rites of the God-Worm) (1478) ​
As the Middle Ages rolled into the Renaissance, and the Church's stranglehold on society began to wane in much of Europe, interest in the Vermis Mysteriis grew and grew. Through its sinister mutterings in the night to willing ears, to its cultists assembling in the forests and caves to beckon its awakening, the Faceless One gained strength. In 1492, the same year as Columbus' fateful and blundering voyage, the Worm Cult began to unite around a central figure for the first time since Abate's execution centuries earlier. Oudin Lecerf, a French-speaker living in the Holy Roman Empire, was chased out of the Rhineland Palatinate by Witch-hunters, and he was accompanied in this flight by no less than several dozen cultists. These acolytes were willing to fight to the death to defend him and the ancient original copies of Abate's work that he had procured through unknown means. Lecerf had been promised by the Worm that he would be given immortality in exchange for doing his will. For his service to the slumbering titan, Lecerf would be shown the full extent of dark power and black magic, and the boon of eternal life would be his. ​
From a new base in southeastern England, in a small fishing hamlet called Innsmouth, Lecerf and his cultists chanted strange prayers and performed heinous acts daily, begging and pleading for the Worm to awaken from its slumber. Lecerf, one night, was possessed by the spirit of the Worm to some degree and disappeared deep into a cave system. There, he supposedly encountered an ethereal being who embraced him in a whirling vortex of energy. Lecerf became the first true vampyre, functionally immortal as long as a steady supply of blood and psychic energy could be had. Through a ritual taught to him by the being in the cave, he could render certain of his followers into vampyres as well. Simply biting or feeding off the psychic energy of a person was not enough to turn them, but rather, it was essential that the thrall be willing and eager, and certain rites had to be performed. This led to the creation of Lecerf's blasphemous Thirteen Disciples. They roamed across the world, exploring, recruiting other cultists, and bringing glory to the Worm's name. However, they all agreed that the number of vampyres should remain at thirteen, to secure their power and hold over their apprentices and followers. They were only useful until one unlocked immortality. They could then be thrown away like used toys. The only exception was to be if one of their number should perish somehow, a new vampyre would be created to take the place of the fallen.
But Lecerf was not satisfied, and as decades grew into centuries, he began to become bored with immortality. He wanted supreme power, and he wanted to become the vessel itself of the Worm, just as Abate had. During the Seven Years War, known in America as the French and Indian War, the cultists hired themselves out to the French, scalping and feeding on British caravans, settlers, and soldiers. These invincible soldiers simply used the job to bring coin into the coffers of the cult, and to provide luxuries and increasingly effective equipment. Some of the Disciples began to mutter about using their powers and money to create "a dominion of our own" in North America. Surely, even if the whole world united against them, they could not fail. But Lecerf warned them that the time was not yet right, and the Worm demanded further service.
As the Disciples began to formulate a plan to dispose of Lecerf, his days became drenched in paranoia. Only one vampyre, since their creation, had been killed. A Frenchman named Lambertus Lajoie had, in 1666, been living in their European hub of Innsmouth when a group of Puritans had accused him of devil-worship, a most serious charge at the time. A silver rapier sword drenched in holy oil had been run through his chest and the body burned, the first victim of the "Innsmouth Brethren" Puritan band that would make hunting them and Worm Cultists their careers and would expand far beyond England. Lajoie was replaced by Englishman Seth Swann. Although it scalded their hands to even hold, the Disciples acquired such a rapier and a bottle of oil blessed by a priest and began to discuss where they should betray their Grandmaster. On October 31, 1776, as Lecerf came into the stone circle in their Moose Factory headquarters to pray, the Disciples surrounded him, and he knew what they planned to do.​
"Fools! Deceivers! I know of what you plan to do, for I have long suspected your disloyalty, and long have I read your thoughts. I now invoke the Crowned and Conquering King to inhabit my form as I have long-prayed in fever-soaked nights of ritual and rite, and I will destroy this entire group of cack-handed jackals and start afresh with those who know their places! Ia! Ia! Oh, Father Dagon! Bring me victory! For I am worthy of becoming your eternal abode!"
- Grandmaster Oudin Lecerf​
After a moment, Lecerf began to convulse violently and flail his limbs like a ragdoll. His eyes rolled to the back of their sockets. His very blood vessels seemed to pulse and almost glow underneath his pale skin like a creature all of their own. He swatted at the ranks of deceivers, sending the vampyres flying through the air. With no effort whatsoever, he grabbed the Russian who called himself Eldon Dantalion, the Disciple he had trusted most, and used his bare hand to crush his skull in. Immortal, Dantalion hit the ground like a sack of rocks, experiencing pain unlike any that could be imagined as his flesh and bone began the rapid process of healing.
As the others rushed him and tried to run him through with the silver sword, he howled and unleashed a burst of visible psychic energy from his white eyes, severing Andre Andras' legs from his body and sending the rapier tumbling to the ground. The entire ground was shaking by this point, and the stones of the prayer circle were falling to the ground like they weighed almost nothing. Irishman Murphy Vear found himself partially crushed under one of the stones, all while Lecerf beat his face in with his bare hand. When Ahab Abraxas attempted to push Lecerf away from Vear, the possessed Grandmaster merely laughed demonically before unhinging his jaw unnaturally wide. He began to gorge himself on the Welshman, like a python devouring a mouse, before spitting the bloodied, mangled immortal mess of Abraxas out with violent force. Abraxas sailed high into the air before being dashed on the ground like a bug.
All while he destroyed his Disciples over and over for their disloyalty, constantly sparing them just short of actual death, the power which he had so long sought was beginning to overwhelm and overheat his body. His vessels became bulged and black, his nose, eyes, and ears bled like a fountain, and his limbs seemed like they were going to blow off of his trunk. At last, after nearly two hours of insane battle, the Grandmaster of the Worm Cult began to wax thin. As the plotters all laid destroyed and beaten, Lecerf could be seen staggering in the moonlight, blood vessels bursting all over his body. But he spoke one final time, not in his own voice, but in the sickening, charnel voice of the creature once known as Leng, Messenger of God:​
"Never doubt my power as your King, and never attempt to betray me again! This isn't about your inconsequential lives nor your trivial baubles and piles of coins. This is about a new era, one in which I shall reign forever over this wretched planet. This battle was good fun, but this vessel is not worthy of me. When I am ready to appear, you shall know the time. And you shall rejoice, lest I strike you all down with furious anger. So let it be written!"​
At that, the head of Oudin Lacerf exploded like a shrapnel shell on a battlefield, flecking the blades of grass and all the flowers of the meadow with his black blood. As the sun dawned, the battered vampyres pieced themselves back together, quite literally, and crawled back to their lodge. There, they agreed to never again let any one man become Cult Grandmaster. No one vampyre should posses the knowledge and power that Lecerf did for so long. They proclaimed themselves the "Vampyre Lords," and wrote a charter that stated no new vampyres would be created, nor would they attempt to invoke the Worm again, for they were very afraid. ​

Synopsis:
The Everloft
Ten floors filled with only the denizens of darkness. A labyrinthine dungeon home to unspeakable terrors beyond mortal imagination.
And the gateway to riches beyond one's wildest dreams.
For decades this rot infested chasm has called to the adventuring parties that roam the land of Averix like a siren luring sailors to their doom. Its blackened tendrils touch the minds of those seeking power, glory, redemption, or freedom, and one by one they are each devoured - lost within the Everloft's blackened intestines.
But still, those brave souls of Averix continue their march into the maws of certain death, without even knowing why themselves. Against the cold breath of winter, three more adventurers shall rise to challenge the great abyss and its legions of the damned. These three share no class, creed, or culture, but shall find each other within the cold embrace of the great pit's chambers. And only there shall they learn the truth:
The Everloft hungers. And they are to be its finest meal.
_____________________________________________________________
CHAPTER 1: Defeat
​
Jael
-Layer 9-
Limp, Gorax’s lifeless body hung from the edge of the gaping chasm, suspended by a force unknown to his comrades who remained below.
Jael watched him sway there in the dead air of the cavern. No words passed between the members of his party. For them, the time for mourning the dead was long gone.
Gorax’s blood trickled down his bulging, muscular arms and dribbled onto Karla’s glasses. She shuddered at the sight, her frail body heaving with real, deep sobs. The kind of cries that tear through your mind.
Jael grabbed her arm and turned her to face him.
‘We need to keep moving.’
She wiped the residue of plumb-purple Yok’ra blood from her cheeks, revealing the spattering of freckles that framed her pale face. Then she clutched her stave tightly to her bosom and gave a single, shaking nod. She intoned another spell.
‘Agaric Lux.’
Instantly a small ball of shimmering light shot up from her staff towards the ceiling. Jael grimaced as it confirmed his suspicions: this section of the labyrinth had expanded since they’d passed through it before. The light illuminated cavern ledges and stalactites filled with scintillating shadows that twisted away, seeking the corners of their domain where they’d hidden to scratch at the party along every step they took. Jael remembered how they’d weathered each dark tendril that struck at them from the dark. Hours had passed. Days, maybe weeks. Who knows how long it had been since any of them had seen natural light? Finally, Gorax had had enough. He’d bellowed that he was going to end these beasts that hounded their every step. Till the end, he had run towards his own demise.
But he had been speaking for all of them.
The light faded, and as it died, the remaining members of Jael’s party heard the choir of a thousand voices approaching from above. Crimson diamonds set within forms that seethed with the living dark of this place prospected them as prey from up there. Watching and waiting for the last residue of light to recede.
Then, as one, they surged forwards.
Jael looked at Karla, and then back at Miron who’s breathing was nothing but a vicious rasp of stuttered air. He still bore the coffin on his back.
‘Go!’ he roared.
They needed no further instruction. Karla muttered a spell of Fleetfoot as her mana drained. A Fifth level incantation.
Too much.
Jael then felt his legs move of their own accord, carried by the strength of the wind that rose beneath Karla’s staff. As one, he and his remaining companions flew passed Gorax’s body as the eyes in his head rolled back and he flashed them a toothy smile, completely devoid of joy. Jael spared a shudder at his comrade’s fate. He’d survived since the start. Since the very beginning of the Dive.
One small ball of shadow detached itself from the writhing mass of darkness weaving around Miron’s protective chants. It cascaded towards Jael, growing taloned feet and teeth that narrowed into black knives aimed for his throat. He drew his blade on impulse and visualized its strike:
Warrior (Arcane Blademaster) Incantation: Searing Strike
GLANCE Channel: LIGHT
DMG: 250pts (Masterwork handicraft weapon + Mark of Amarata)
His blade sliced through the air and cut across the beast’s gnashing fangs, a searing arc of electrical energy leaping from its tip to tear through the blackened skein that coated the creature. It instantly dissipated before him, returning to the living shadow of the Everloft’s deep dark abyss.
But he felt the creature’s poison seep into his sword and dull its edge, then watched in horror as the runes along the gilded hilt of the weapon began to dim. His automatic Appraisal told him what he needed to know:
Mana-rot (LVL 8)
Corruption progress: 35%
Truthfully, he didn’t know why he’d even bothered appraising the vile poison. None of that mattered now.
Floating towards the ceiling, bound towards the entrance the team had marked when they’d passed through who knows how many days before, Jael finally came to realize the inevitable: even if they made it back to the checkpoint on the Eighth Layer, they’d be weaponless, three men down and possibly without equipment. Already he could sense the futility inherent in his own dwindling strength. The cavern seemed to bare down on top of them, and with every slash he made through the body of another vile Voidspawn, he became aware that the darkness only followed them up through the gullet of this raging, living deathtrap.
‘Karla!’ he heard Miron yell.
He knew what had happened before the ear-piercing cry that issued from the elven girl’s slashed throat reached him. The flying group started to lose their momentum as the magewind that had carried them this far began to stutter and die with its mistress. Jael did nothing but grab her hand and throw them both into the closest tunnel, feeling the sickening squeal of the organic mass that writhed beneath them as it licked at their worn armor, looking for exposed skin. Jael ignored it and helped Miron enter into the tunnel mouth as the pursuing wisps of unnatural night stabbed towards his back – thousands of little needles piercing through his cloak and pumping their vicious payload into his torso. He weathered the blows, spreading his arms wide, palms up, and, with Karla in his arms, Jael watched the remainder of Miron’s mana drain from him.
‘Akash Ku’mari!’
Instantly the tunnel was bathed in light, so much so that Jael shielded his eyes with his busted gauntlet, feeling searing rays of holy sunlight spear through his armored fingers, even as their main energies were focused on repelling the creatures at the mouth of the tunnel. Their alien cries of anguish filled the entire cavern as Miron closed this section off completely with a veil of pure, shimmering sunlight.
As Miron fell forwards, Jael began to feel his breath come back to him again. He touched his arm and focused on the benevolent energies swirling there. He had to know how much of his remaining strength Miron was using.
Appraisal: Success
Incantation: Guardian’s Ward (LVL 10, Chanter LVL 15)
Injury Repair: 100%
HP Regeneration: 65pts/3 sec
Too much. As usual.
‘Karla?’ Miron barked from his crouched position.
Jael looked down at her face and saw that, indeed, the spell had knit the tear in her neck and she gasped with the knowledge of one who had just been dragged back from the jaws of death itself.
She smiled sadly. ‘Bloody Guardians,’ she spat.
Jael tried a wry smile at the quip before realizing that Miron had only just brought her back from the brink. She wouldn’t make it back topside. He knew it.
Looking into the tired, flickering light in her eyes, Jael saw that she knew it, too.
‘Pfft,’ Miron scoffed in his throaty voice. ‘Always so grateful.’
Jael did nothing but sit back with them, knowing the denizens of the dark were even now finding other ways to burrow their way into this place. Knowing that it was all merely a matter of time.
‘Didn’t I tell you before?’ he said to Miron. ‘You’ve got eight floors to go before you’re back topside, my friend. Save the good stuff for later.’
‘I’m not going to let anyone else just roll over and die, Jael,’ the towering lizardman croaked.
Jael looked at him long and hard. Despite it all, he had to laugh. Jael knew, that within that towering bulk of scales and high-level gear Miron was afraid. Not for himself, of course. The way he’d thrown himself in front of them both without any hesitation proved that. He was never afraid for himself. He wouldn’t be a Guardian if he was.
‘The Everloft chose well for you,’ Jael chuckled dryly. ‘And that’s probably its most fiendish trick.’
‘You give it too much credit,’ Miron replied.
‘And you never gave it enough.’
Karla rose steadily, leaning heavily on her staff. This time she refused Jael’s help.
‘Well ladies,’ she said, flashing that same sad smile that had plagued her since the ascension had begun. ‘Do we bicker in this spume filled tunnel or do we head back to the tavern on the Seventh for a drink?’
Jael shuddered at the memory, but Miron launched himself back to his feet. He and Karla then both looked at their leader, eager and willing.
He looked back at them with a smile that people said could convince anyone to throw their lives away for him. If that were true, Jael thought, then it was no blessing at all.
Could it be you both never realized we were dead from the very start? Jael pondered.
They relied on Karla’s globe of light to guide them through the tunnel network, for they all remembered the results of Selina proudly lighting a torch to stave off the dark as they descended. Jael remembered her limbs, twisted and torn, and the black fingers that raked the light from her hands and penetrated her eye sockets, making her into a twisted flesh puppet for the Voidspawn.
The tunnels grew only longer. And the beating heart of the living organism – the intelligence that prospected them with eyes that lined the entire Layer – kept pounding in Jael’s ears till it reached a fever pitch. The walls themselves began to beat, dripping with ooze and the blood of the dead.
Without even realizing it, they started running.
Miron kept watch at their backs as the wail of the Voidspawn howled through the ever-pulsing tunnels. Jael appraised the coffin on his back quickly – it was still completely intact. That was the single light in the dark now.
‘Miron,’ he said. ‘Steady.’
‘I’m fine,’ he shouted back over the increasing shrieks that they knew were at this point being funneled in through the other tunnel sections. They’d tried so many strategies – but they’d never matched the speed of the Everloft’s deepest denizens.
So distracted was Jael by his attempts to calculate the party’s next move that he didn’t feel the floor give way below him. He was set to plummet into the gnashing teeth of the abyss that stretched beneath his feet were it not for Kyra’ s swift levitation spell.
She dragged Jael through the air back to the end of the tunnel and he scanned the chasm that had once more opened up before them.
Four meters high – there it was: the exit portal. A swirling sphere of auburn light burning against an onyx-clad sky.
‘Don’t suppose you’re packing any more Magewind, Karla?’ Jael asked.
She gave a wry scoff. ‘That would make it too easy.’
The scrabbling sound of a thousand pincer-like feet on the tunnel floor grew closer, till finally they saw the first Voidspawn’s piercing crimson eyes and snarling maw appear at the head of the horde.
Miron readied his next protective chant, but Kyra warded him away with a wave of her hand.
‘Mind yourself, Guardian,’ she murmured. ‘Like the Bossman said, you’ve got eight more floors to go.’
The two men stared at her with incredulous eyes as the seething creatures massed together as one and shot towards them – a gale of darkness glowing with a thousand crimson eyes.
Jael watched Karla as the blazing neon pyromancy runes burned into life around her hands and grew, till they bathed them all in the light of a barely contained inferno. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and Jael appraised the spell:
GLANCE Channel (PYRO): Narathzul’s Wrath.
DMG: 583 pts in 50ft on Target (LVL 15)
Enchanter’s mark augmentation effect activated - Explosive Discharge: Repulsion 100ft
‘Karla…’ Jael began.
‘You know what?’ she said, facing the howling dark. ‘You’re a bastard and a scoundrel, Jael.’
As Miron made to protest, Jael placed a firm arm on his shoulder and smiled dryly.
‘And you’re a spoiled brat and a second-rate sorceress.’
He nodded to Miron who begrudgingly began chanting Steel Flesh while he downed a poultice of Fire Resistance. The two men braced themselves.
‘May Amarata guide your spirit, Karla,’ Miron croaked.
She spared a final look at her companions as she traced the red rune of her incantation in the air, lighting up the whole tunnel seething with the mass of oozing black.
‘I sure hope not,’ she said.
The explosion that then shot from her hands wrapped the entire tunnel in threads of burning crimson that tore away at the horde, and in a lambent kaleidoscope of blurred red-orange, Jael and Miron were catapulted from the tunnel mouth towards the exit, watching the flames consume Karla instantly, eating away at her flesh. Where her smiling face had been only moments ago, now only ash remained.
This is what we deserve, Jael realized as he and Miron flew towards the exit portal, one step closer to the surface. All of us.
He reached out his hand to make contact with the shimmering portal’s surface. Just a finger was all that had to touch that barrier. Just a nail…
His grasping fingers went right through the portal, and it disappeared entirely from existence, letting himself and Miron plummet to the bottom of the chasm once again, the giggling of the Voidspawn Cackler above filling his ears.
None of their Appraisals had revealed that they could mimic the exit portals.
They smashed into the floor of the cavern, tanking the damage but knowing now that the exit was nothing more than a fanciful dream. All around them the mocking aura of the denizens of the deep grew in amplitude. They had only moments before they descended to feast on the last of the party. Jael could see them, feel them creeping down the walls towards him and the last surviving members of the Dive, slowly descending on the scraps of flesh that had wondered so willingly into their little trap.
The sound of the Everloft’s beating heart grew in amplitude. It was excited.
Jael slumped against the pulsing wall, weathering Miron’s yells.
‘Jael!’ he screamed. ‘Get up!’
Jael let his head fall.
‘I’m tired, Miron,’ he said, thinking of Karla’s dying face moments before she probably screamed out in pain.
Maybe I just became used to blocking their screams out.
‘And then there were two,’ he murmured as he cast his gaze up to the legions of Voidspawn crawling down the walls of the cavern towards him, slowly making their way towards the prey that they’d toyed with for months on end. Now, the final act had come.
‘I told you,’ Jael heard Miron scream from somewhere distant, as reality started to fade for him. ‘I’m not going to let you lay down and die!’
Jael looked to his sword and saw the poison had drained its shining blade down right to the hilt. He was done. But his eyes lingered on the coffin Miron still bore proudly on his back. Still intact. Not a scratch on it.
‘Miron,’ he said, unstrapping the potion from his belt that he knew was their last chance. ‘Take it to the surface. Take it back…where it belongs.’
The hulking lizardman looked at his Captain with exasperated eyes. He saw what he was holding.
‘Jael,’ he whispered, his voice becoming lost in the raging cacophony of the bounding beasts that raced down towards them. ‘I won’t leave you.’
And as Miron reached out to touch his face, Jael uncorked the potion of Recall and forced it down his friend’s throat.
‘Miron,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’
Miron sputtered as he withdrew and bellowed something at Jael before his form shimmered out of existence, garbed in the lambent purple sparks that would carry him directly back to the Eighth and the camp waiting there. One potion – the rarest of all artifacts Jael had ever found in the darkest regions of the accursed spume-filled tunnels.
It was me or you, Miron, he thought as the beasts closed in on all sides. I chose you.
The virulent saliva seeping from the fangs of the Voidspawn that crawled above dribbled onto his head and burned away the greying hairs that had long ago stopped growing there.
All around him Jael saw the mass of growing evil morph into their quadruped wolf forms with their stabbing pincers and lambent red eyes that he’d come to expect of the amorphous Voidspawn. Those that had hounded his party’s every step.
He stared right back at them.
I defy you.
They stalked forwards, snarling maws anxiously awaiting the meal that lay before them.
I deny you.
A howl of either triumph or rage echoed from the black throat of the largest amongst them – the one that held Gorak’s smiling face in its gnashing jaws.
This is not your victory.
Jael saw then that they’d stolen the faces of all of those who had fallen – there was Karla, her mouth twisted in a scream that was never heard. Samael’s cheeky grin was replaced with a crestfallen gaze, and Merril’s bright eyes beamed with tears of bubbling tar.
‘You did not decide their fate,’ he spat at the façade, trembling all the while. ‘I did. I led them to their doom. But what we took from you, you will never reclaim.’
Jael smiled as he felt the fury of the labyrinth itself rebound off the walls and tear apart the tunnels.
‘Think you can catch him? Go ahead and try. You’re wasting your time here on an old bastard like me.’
Finally, Jael felt the command to the Voidspawn boom in his own skull. The impulse that drove them to seek out the light. To eradicate the life that drew breath in their breathless realm. They crept forward like a chorus of mad hounds, a legion of rage coming for the intruder in their lair.
Jael closed his eyes. Before the jaws of darkness closed around his skull, he allowed himself a fleeting, puerile wish:
Amarata, he pleaded. Let not our deaths be in vain.
__________________________________________________________
​
Thanks for reading!
You can find all currently released chapters of 'Averix: Call of the Everloft (vol. I)' on Royal Road: https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/66316/averix-call-of-the-everloft-dark-fantasy-litrpg

My biggest regret is ever letting my mother meet my son. I cut contact with my brothers and my dad immediately upon becoming pregnant, but I didn't cut contact with my mom. I was too vulnerable, too weak, too ignorant.
She was so excited to be a grandma. She played an instrumental part in helping me get ready for him when I suddenly became pregnant before I was even old enough to drink. I was a broke waitress and I felt like I needed her help. Though I had gone NC with her in the past, I had come crawling back about a year prior to this pregnancy after homelessness fears and couch surfing for a couple of years. It was either break NC or sleep on the street. I felt like I needed the help. She was an invaluable asset when my son was first born, there to help with my recovery and showing me how to care for an infant.
Sounds nice, right? Well, that's the thing. My mom was all about looks, and her tool of choice is young children. She never really loved me but she loved the narcissistic supply of showing me off when I was young and cute. I didn't realize how manipulative and selfish she was until puberty. As soon as I became 5-10lbs overweight and no longer wanted to wear dresses, she would see right past me and didn't even slightly care about my suffering. She allowed my dad and my brothers to commit unspeakable abuse and punished me for ever speaking up about it. She would laugh as they hurt me. She would lie so often, she'd lie about having chocolate when she actually had vanilla for absolutely no gain, just because she couldn't NOT lie. She stole from me and threw my things away for reasons I still don't understand while claiming she had no idea where they had gone. I think that 95% of what came out of her mouth were lies. She is all about looking like a great person while not actually giving a shit behind closed doors. She'd let me die for the sweet, delicious sympathy that my death would afford her. Parading me as this horrible child she was so brave to have to raise was her new way of suckling her supply out of me.
Naturally, this relationship soured. She never got any better. She continued to not care. She continued to defend my GC brothers, lie on their behalf, and gaslight my experiences. She would take my son for weekends because he's young and cute, taking him to do fun things like theme parks and aquariums, establishing a strong relationship with him. When he was 2, it was discovered that he was on the spectrum, and he became an invaluable supply to her narcissism. What a selfless, amazing woman, caring for her disabled grandson! Isn't she so amazing? Isn't she so giving and wonderful?
Sure. Until he's no longer young and "cute". Then, he'll become this horrible burden that she's so brave to care for. That day will come. The first time I wanted to go NC with her, she loaded him as ammo: "You're going to use your son against me as a pawn, aren't you?? You're going to ROB him of a relationship with his own grandmother just to get back at me!!"
I can't believe I fell for it. Now he's eight years old and I realize that her saying that was actually HER using him as a pawn, using him against me to make sure I couldn't cut contact.
My mother is the queen of spite. The first time I went NC with her before couch surfing as a teen was because she told my brothers that I had hit her when I have never once done such a thing so that they would come beat me up. I walked out of the house and called a friend to come get me and didn't look back for years. When I saw all of my childhood toys in boxes ready to be thrown in the trash, she used my brothers to make sure that I wasn't allowed to salvage the toys that meant so much to me. She had my brothers go to where I was staying and steal everything I owned, claiming I owed it to her, that it was hers because she paid for me up until then. They told me that, even if she was evil, they would take her side no matter what. She tried to call the police to take me home and lied to them, so my friend had to say that she would also lie to the police about her using drugs if she did that. She had her middle aged friends bombard my social media with horrible insults about what a terrible child I was when I was still in school. She did everything in her power to hurt me and has never changed. She just keeps playing the pity card. "I was just so hurt!"
But now, my son loves her. He has only seen the fake front she puts on. He asks for her. And I can't burn that bridge. He's his own person. He doesn't understand these complications, both because of his age and his disability. It isn't fair to him that, in order for me to go NC, he has to lose his relationship with his grandmother that he sees no issues with. And worst of all, I know that he is her supply. The moment he is no longer "cute", she will completely objectify him with no consideration for his feelings or health. If he ever gets in an accident under her care, she will never tell me the truth about what happened and spin a story to make herself look amazing. He is a tool to her and he doesn't know it.
But how do I end it? My husband thinks it's wrong to cut contact between them. He thinks that my son deserves the autonomy outside my relationship with her, that he is not me, that is not my place to project my experiences onto him. I just find it so perverted that I will literally celebrate her death, but my son will mourn her. I find it gross to send him to somebody that treats me so horribly. I have to endure this bridge. But I can't help but feel like ending it now BEFORE she turns on him will ultimately be better than letting him find out the hard way that she never really loved him, but really just loved how he made her look to others.
The last time he came home from a weekend with her, she sent a shoebox of toys that she said were "mine". They were my brother's toys. Explicitly. She MUST have known, because they had soccer stuff all over them and my brother was a soccer player when I never liked the sport. She'd thrown all of mine away on purpose over a decade ago. I completely broke down, seeing how she saved all of his stuff that he never cared about but discarded mine like trash when I was so attached. She can't even tell the difference between my toys and my brothers', BEST case scenario. I'd be shocked if she even knew my birthday despite it being two days off from hers. She conveniently forgot that she erased all of my positive childhood memories out of spite. I spent the night crying and my husband just couldn't understand, having been raised by caring parents. I can't stand even vicarious contact. I want her to be dead already, or at least act as if she's dead.
Now she wants to take him for another weekend and I finally told my husband that I feel like I need to sever this relationship between her and my son... but he disagrees. Am I wrong to make that decision for him? I'm going to be having my second son in a month, and I KNOW that she will never meet him or even so much as receive a photo... which complicates things even more. How can I send one son but not the other? How will I explain that as my second gets older? How will I explain to my first? I feel like I'm driving towards a wall but I can't turn the car. This can't end well unless she just fucking dies, but of course the wicked live the longest.
I'm usually very decisive. I had no problem going NC as a teen and haven't spoken to the rest of my narcissistic family for years. No apologies, no second guessing. But now that my son is involved, I feel like I've been emotionally blackmailed. "How can you make that decision for him? You're using him as a pawn! You're doing it to punish her!" Honestly, I feel like I'm shackled to her, like this mistake of my past means that I can never go NC ever again. It's killing me. I don't want to do wrong by my son. I want to respect his autonomy. But that means I have to be linked to this witch forever.
Anybody else deal with similar? Any advice? What would you do in this situation?

“A Maid’s Diary,” Chapter 13
by c.w. cobblestone
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Dear Diary,
Please forgive the sporadic entries. It’s been more than a year since I last wrote. This journaling has been hot and cold; I’ll get on kicks and chronicle everything for a while, and then go through long periods where I just don’t have the heart to relive my daily pain and humiliation. At any rate, there’s a lot on my mind tonight and I want to jot it all down.
Mike’s Master Plan is moving forward with frightening speed. So far, in addition to me, The Family has recruited 14 inferiors with a total net worth of $4.5 million. The others were all “shocked” into sissy-hood after becoming ensnared by The Family’s six beautiful women, whose skill at the ancient arts enables them to melt hearts at will. Since the baptism of fire template was set last year with the appalling procedure that turned Ed into Fluffy, Mike and the girls have used the same evil routine to convert their unsuspecting, lovesick victims into mindless slaves who are eager to sign over their assets.
As long as we stay downtrodden and demoralized, Mike says the brainwashing will never wear off. He repeatedly reminds his flock that they need to “keep the sissies down” by humiliating and hurting us at every opportunity so that the spell doesn’t dissipate — a welcome task for Mike’s coven of demonic harpies. The girls delight in debasing us. We’re forced to regularly perform sex shows for them in which we do unspeakably disgusting things to each other. We have to mix urine with every meal. We’re constantly being slapped, whipped, kicked, punched and spit on. “Keeping the sissies down” comes easy for the ladies, who have a grand old time doing it.
The hard part, Mike says, is identifying the “right kind of inferior” to go after in the first place. Candidates are required to have loose family ties, at least $100,000 in liquid assets, low self-esteem, and must also meet the diminutive physical requirements. Mike spends hours trolling probate records, newspaper legal notices, court dockets and social media feeds trying to identify new victims.
After The Leader flags someone, he or the girls will dig into their backgrounds and follow them for weeks, learning their habits and preferences — information that’s filed away and later used against the target during the courting process. Mike decides which of his gorgeous acolytes will “bump into” the inferiors based the intel he’s gathered and analyzed beforehand that gives insight into the wimps’ personality traits. From there, as soon as one of these poor bastards gazes into the eyes of any of the Family women, they’re done for.
Once another five inferiors are recruited and baptized, Mike says The Family will relocate to Nevada, where prostitution is legal. The plan is to purchase a large tract of land, where they’ll operate a “chicken ranch” that caters to a niche market — clients who want sex with transgendered hookers who’ll literally do anything they’re told. Mike says he’s researched the market and insists it’s a growth area.
At the rear of the property, out of sight from the chicken ranch, Mike will open a textile mill. He says there’s a need for high-quality, American-made materials, although for decades foreign companies have undercut U.S. textile firms by paying their workers slave wages. Mike says The Family will be able to submit bids even lower than the overseas competitors because he’ll be able to beat their rock-bottom labor costs while avoiding import tariffs.
Each business will be staffed with 10 sissies. Work assignments have already been handed out to a few inferiors — including me, thank goodness — but the rest of the slaves are living in mortal fear that they’ll end up at the textile mill. Mike has explained that the job is will be a fucking nightmare. He plans to make the sissies live and sleep at their workstations 23 hours a day, with one hour where they’ll be allowed to exercise outside. Mill sissies will be fed the bare minimum needed to survive, and allowed to sleep only as long as medically necessary. The rest of their time will be spent at their machines toiling for The Family. Mike says he wants to squeeze the maximum profit out of each mill sissy, working them almost to death — but not quite.
One night while discussing the plan, Olivia suggested: “Why don’t we make the mill sissies wear diapers? That way, they won’t have to waste time taking bathroom breaks.”
Mike thought it was a great idea. He also approved Leigh’s proposal that mill sissies be allowed just one diaper-change per week.
“The little bitches are gonna get some BAD diaper rash,” she chuckled. “But that’ll keep the sissies down while saving The Family money at the same time!”
Those of us who’ll be “house sissies” will have it a little better, although according to what Mike has planned, our lives won’t exactly be all rainbows and lollipops. I’ve been told that I’ll work eight hours a day monitoring the market and coming up with investment strategies for Mike to approve, which is basically what I do at the bank now. At night, I’ll continue in my current role as The Family’s personal maid, but Mike says I’ll also be responsible for turning tricks like the other house sissies. We’ll be fed the same cheap, disgusting, piss-soaked gruel as the mill drones, but at least Mike says we’ll be provided enough nourishment to keep us from becoming emaciated — not a consideration for the slaves who won’t have to worry about staying attractive for clients.
I think poor Fluffy is headed for the mill. I’m rooting for the little guy, but Kelsey and Olivia seem to have it out for him, and they dog him worse than any of the other sissies — which is saying something, since the sisters treat us all pretty horribly.
About eight months ago, during a Family discussion about The Master Plan, Mike mentioned that chicken ranch clients might enjoy “gum jobs,” and that perhaps he should have a few of the sissies’ teeth pulled for that purpose.
“Teeth get in the way of a good blowjob, and having a couple toothless sissy whores just might be a good marketing tool,” he mused.
Carmen asked: “Why do any of the sissies need teeth?”
Since nobody could provide an answer, it was decided that all of our teeth would be pulled, whether we were going to be house sissies or mill workers.
In order to “keep the sissies down,” Mike instructed the girls to do the dental work with no anesthetic. At the time, there were only eight of us. We all had to line up and watch in horror as, one by one, each poor sissy underwent the agonizing process. The girls made a game of it, ordering us to stay quiet during the procedure, knowing damn well it was impossible. They instructed me to keep score and count how many times each girl made a sissy squeal. I yelped seven times while my teeth were being yanked out, but that wasn’t nearly the most. Poor Fluffy screamed out 21 times, which made him the loser, earning him a terrible ass-whipping when the “tooth game” was over.
Olivia told the rest of us we were also going to be disciplined because Fluffy was “such a little faggoty wimp.”
Our punishment? The evil little bitch made us all gargle salt water, which caused excruciating pain. Mike sat there beaming when his jokester of a daughter came up with that one.
I spent the rest of the night curled up in a ball, crying my eyes out. The next week or two were absolutely miserable for my fellow sissies and me as our swollen mouths slowly healed.
The other seven inferiors who’ve been recruited since then have had their teeth eradicated during their baptism of fire ceremonies, which Mike says is the plan for future inductions as well. He’s contemplating having the sissies pull out their own teeth during the baptisms.
The whole thing is sick. I would say going through all this horror is causing me post-traumatic shock syndrome, but there’s nothing “post” about the shocking trauma I’m experiencing right now. Every day, Mike and the girls sink deeper. Whenever I think there’s no way they can possibly get worse, they push the goalposts further downward toward the gates of hell.
I try to be a mentor to the other sissies in the limited way I’m able to, since I’ve been here the longest, but I can tell they resent me because I’m allowed a few extra privileges as the Family maid. But the other slaves REALLY despise Fluffy because he’s always fucking up and the rest of us get in trouble for it. Making the other sissies pay for Fluffy’s screwups breeds antipathy toward the hapless 19-year-old pansy — which is exactly what The Family wants.
Divide-and-conquer is just one of many strategies they use to control us and “keep the sissies down.” The abuse, mental destabilization and exploitation are never-ending. In order to maintain control, The Family wants us to stay confused, degraded and exhausted, and they have fun thinking up new ways to make that happen.
The other 14 sissies and me have signed all our assets over to Mike, who has a “fellow traveler” working in government to snuff out any red flags that might be raised by the large financial transactions. Six of The Family’s inferiors have continued working their respective jobs, while also taking night gigs, making as much money for Mike as possible before it’s time to sell their property and move to Nevada. For the time being, the sissies who have continued working are allowed to stay in their homes, although Mike had them cut off their utilities to save money.
As another cost-cutting measure, Fluffy and the seven other inferiors who’d inherited their wealth and didn’t hold jobs have already sold their homes, handed Mike the profits, and are currently residing in a shed in the backyard. It’s a small hut that wouldn’t even sleep two people comfortably, but all eight sissies are crammed in there, literally on top of each other. They’re allowed to use a garden hose for showers, and once a day they eat a bowlful of slop that’s been pissed on.
Rather than having the unemployed sissies lying around in the shed all day, Mike has them working fast-food jobs, or he farms them out to area landscapers and other companies that are looking for temporary labor. The transgendered slaves are allowed to wear threadbare female clothing to those jobs, rather than their usual itchy potato-sack frocks. At night, the sissies either work part-time gigs or engage in home moneymaking ventures such as stuffing envelopes or making telemarketing calls. It’s almost an impossible task to work in that tiny shed, but it’s up to the sissies to make it happen. Mike cares only about maximizing profits, so he drives the poor bastards like rented mules, eking out every last drop from their exhausted bodies and minds.
There are advantages to being the Family’s personal sissy. I’m allowed to sleep in my basement room, although I now have to crash on the floor. That was Peyton’s idea, because she said “we don’t want the sissy to get too conceited and think he’s better than the other ones.” The only reason I’m not out in the shed with the other slaves is because The Family wants me at their beck and call 24/7 to fetch drinks in the middle of the night and so forth. On cold winter nights, I’m happy to be at their service rather than shivering outside.
Although being The Family’s personal sissy affords me some perks, one drawback is having to prepare scrumptious meals for my masters while only being allowed to eat that revolting sissy glop. It’s made up of raw oats, vitamins, barley — and, to “keep the sissies down,” each of us has to piss in another slave’s bowl before any food can be eaten. It’s quite a sight during meals, watching demoralized zombies wordlessly pair up behind the shed, trading earthenware bowls and urinating in them before handing them back to each other and gobbling down every soggy drop. Even the inferiors who are allowed to live in their houses must travel to the shed once a day to eat, and to get their daily whippings so that The Family can “keep the sissies down” before sending them away to earn more money.
There’s very little conversation amongst the sissies. Mike says we’re only allowed to talk about things that are necessary to advance Family business, and since all of us are completely brainwashed and compliant, we don’t break Family rules. I can tell by looking at my fellow sissies, though, that they’re every bit as resentful and full of self-loathing inside as I am. Still, we’ve all been instructed to plaster fake smiles on our faces and pretend we enjoy being downtrodden slaves.
During my daily routine, I don’t often come in contact with the other sissies. They generally stay in the shed when they’re not working, and I’m usually serving in the house, although I have to go back there once a day during mealtimes to hopefully get another inferior to piss in my bowl so I can eat. It’s difficult to do without talking, and sometimes when the others are feeling aggrieved because of my higher status, I’m forced to go from sissy to sissy holding my bowl out, pleading with my eyes. There have been nights where I’ve gone hungry because none of my fellow sissies would piss in my bowl. Fluffy usually comes to the rescue, since I’ve taken him under my wing and have peed in his bowl many times when the others wouldn’t do it because they were mad at him for fucking up and causing them extra punishment. But if Fluffy can’t squeeze out any pee and the other sissies are mad at me about something, I’m shit out of luck.
Other than Fluffy and myself, the sissies currently serving The Family are:
** DINKY (formerly Ralph Penn): Dinky is the tiniest of The Family’s sissies, stretching in at a diminutive 5’3. He makes a shitload of money in his law practice, which he continues to run after he out as transgendered following his baptism of fire. Dinky says the announcement has actually helped his business, and he was able to sign over $150,000 to Mike. At night, he earns extra money for The Family by writing legal briefs and doing other paralegal work from home. He’s allowed to stay in his house, although like the other sissies who are afforded that privilege, his utilities have been cut off to save money and he must sleep on the floor. After the move to Nevada, Dinky will work in the chicken ranch, since Mike says clients will enjoy having such a “tiny sissy toy.”
** BOO-BOO (formerly Donald Qualls): Boo-Boo was the owner of a beauty salon he’d inherited from his grandmother before signing the business over to Mike. Between the salon and Boo-Boo’s savings account, Mike netted more than $225,000 from the sissy. Boo-Boo has also been slated for the chicken ranch, and because the girls say he has such a baby face, he’s been turned into an infantile sissy to cater to future clients with that particular fetish. Boo-Boo is only allowed to interact as a baby when he’s on the clock, and is barred from saying anything other than “goo-goo, gaga,” although he’s been granted permission to act and talk normally during the day while he runs the salon, and at night during his shift at McDonald’s. Boo-Boo sold his house and sleeps in the shed.
** PETUNIA (formerly Oscar Kozlowski): Petunia’s most noticeable feature is his long nose. The protruding proboscis is the source of much amusement for the girls, who often make him “nose-fuck” other slaves in the ass during “sissy play time,” which is the name our tormentors gave to the degrading sex shows we’re often ordered to perform. After his baptism of fire, Petunia gave Mike the $200,000 he’d inherited from his parents, before selling his house and moving into the shed. He now works out of the shed six days a week making cold calls for a cellular company. In addition to those 16-hour daily shifts, on Sundays, Petunia works an additional 18 hours cleaning office buildings. Two weeks ago, Petunia learned his unfortunate fate from Carmen, who informed him, “you’re way too goddamn ugly to be a house sissy.” It shouldn’t have been a surprise, since Petunia is fairly homely, but the crestfallen sissy has been moping around since getting the news that he'll be working in the mill, although he’s careful to keep smiling when our masters are present.
** FIFI (formerly Jack Harper): The owner of JH Wholesalers, Inc. is a successful diamond broker who is in the process of finding a buyer for his firm, so Mike can pocket the profits. When he does, he’ll also sell his house, move into the shed and find ways to earn money for The Family while waiting on the move to Nevada. So far, Fifi has brought a whopping $1.25 million to the table, with more to come after he sells his company. Like many of The Family’s sissies, Fifi earns extra money for Mike by working at McDonald’s every night after his diamond business has closed, and he works double shifts on Sundays. Fifi’s future work status is undetermined, and he’s been kissing major ass lately in hopes he won’t be sent to the mill.
** HILDEGARDE (formerly John Wellington): Hildegarde is older than the other sissies, but the 58-year-old came with an inherited $400,000 estate, so Mike reeled him in. Hildegarde has been told he’ll either be assigned to the chicken ranch as a “pain sissy,” catering to the most sadistic clients, or sent to the mill — “because otherwise, nobody’s gonna want your old, ugly, wrinkled-up ass,” is the way Kelsey put it. Hildegarde sold his mansion, turned the profits over to The Family, and currently resides in the shed, where he spends 10 hours a day hunched over his cheap laptop doing online research for an insurance company, before pulling an additional 8-hour shift on the Burger King drive-through each night.
** FOO-FOO (formerly Charles Randall): At 5’4, Foo-Foo is only a bit taller than Dinky. Unfortunately, unlike Dinky, there’s nothing cute about the bank vice-president, with his squinched-up face and beady little mole eyes, so it’s a foregone conclusion that he’ll be sent to the mill once we relocate to Nevada. He’ll continue living in his house without heat, running water or electricity while working at the bank until the move. After the bank closes each evening, Foo-Foo heads straight to Wendy’s, where he works until 2am. Foo-Foo added $375,000 to Mike’s coffers.
** BUTTERCUP (formerly Dwayne Remington): The son of a clothing heir, Buttercup turned his $200,000 inheritance over to Mike following his baptism of fire. Since he didn’t have a job prior to being recruited, Buttercup was put to work at a landscaping company, where he works 16 hours a day, 7 days a week, and sleeps in the shed. The Family hasn’t decided whether Buttercup will be a house or mill sissy, although his chances were hurt following an incident last week in which he dropped his end of a glass table he was helping me carry into the house, causing it to shatter. Peyton, who was supervising, punished all the sissies for Buttercup’s mishap by withholding food from us for three days.
** TWEETY (formerly Arnold Rutherford): Tweety is one of the best car salesmen in our state, so Mike told him to continue doing that and to stay in his apartment until the move. The “poorest” of all the recruited inferiors, Tweety just squeaked past the $100,000 threshold, but because Mike found out during his research that Tweety restored cars on the side, The Leader decided he’ll put the sissy’s mechanical knowledge to work when machines in the mill need maintenance or repair. Thanks to his skillset, poor Tweety is destined for the dreaded mill.
** ZOEY (formerly Franklyn Delancey): Something about Zoey really pisses Leigh off. Perhaps it’s because she was the one who snagged him after Mike found out that he’d inherited $350,000 from a long-lost uncle. During the courting phase, the sap fell hard for Leigh, who made his life miserable for weeks leading up to his baptism of fire. Since Zoey sold his property and moved into the shed, Leigh has continued going out of her way to be mean to the ruddy-faced sissy. Right now, he’s being punished for not being respectful enough to Leigh, after apparently not answering her question quickly enough. For that infraction, Leigh said until further notice Zoey must keep a huge dildo lodged in his rectum other than being allowed to pull it out for two bathroom breaks daily. That’s a particularly tough punishment because Zoey works at the same landscaping firm as Buttercup 16 hours a day. I overheard Leigh laughing with Jen last week about how hard it must be for the sissy to have to do landscaping work “with a baseball bat stuck up his ass.” While no formal announcement has been made about Zoey’s future work status, it’s a safe bet Leigh will send him to the mill.
** DUCHESS (formerly Steve McCullum): Duchess is a sullen sissy, even more so than the others. He keeps the required fake smile on his face when The Family is around, but it’s easy to see how bummed out he is about his plight. None of us are exactly thrilled with how our lives have turned out, but there’s something about Duchess that makes him seem sadder than everyone else. He’s the only sissy living in the shed who didn’t inherit his money. Duchess had been employed as a supervisor at a utility company, and was saving every dime while living a Spartan lifestyle, renting a one-bedroom apartment and never buying anything he didn’t need. He had saved $200,000 toward a $500,000 goal, at which point he was going to retire from the utility company and open his own restaurant. Those best-laid plans changed after Carmen reeled him in and he underwent his baptism of fire. He originally was going to be allowed to stay in his apartment while continuing his job at the utility, but when he was laid off, he moved into the shed and began working 16 hours a day at McDonald’s. Because he knows his way around electric components, having worked for a utility, Duchess was told he will work at the mill. No wonder he seems so morose all the time.
** BIJOU (formerly Zachery Olson): If any of The Family’s sissies were to ever crack, it would probably be Bijou, who brought his $250,000 life savings to the table after Jen roped him in. Since he’s allowed to stay at home and continue working in his high-paying job as a plant manager for an auto supply company, his lifestyle remains a notch above the sissies who are relegated to the cramped shed. But Bijou walks around like he’s frightened to death, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He’s almost certainly headed for the mill.
** FAWN (formerly Frederick Van Pelt): Fawn is a skinny little thing, which will most likely prevent him from working at the chicken ranch after we move. Like Dinky, Fawn is an attorney, and by the time he was recruited, he’d more than $400,000. He will continue practicing law while doing freelance paralegal work after-hours in his dark, unheated house until it’s time to sell the property and move to Nevada.
** BUBBLES (formerly Nathaniel Harding): Bubbles is by far The Family’s dumbest sissy. By age 25, he’d already blown through half of the inheritance his father had left him by making ridiculously stupid investments. After his baptism of fire, he turned the remaining $200,000 over to Mike before he could piss any more money away, then sold his mansion and moved into the shed. Bubbles had initially gotten a job at McDonald’s but he had trouble counting change, so they let him go. His firing earned him a severe beating and two weeks without food other than vitamin supplements. He now works at the landscaping company.
The Family plans to recruit five more gullible saps. I already feel sorry for them, even though they’ll probably end up resenting my status as the Family maid, just like the other sissies, and sometimes refuse to piss in my bowl so I can eat.
I’m sure it won’t be long before Mike has his 20 inferiors in the fold. Then … it’s westward ho!
With an emphasis on the “ho.” Thank goodness I’ll be one. Anything will be better than being a mill sissy.
Ugh. There’s a lot to digest. I think I should stop thinking about it now and get to bed. Good night, diary.

MrBeast is the new No. 1 with record earnings, and Jake Paul ranks second despite past scandals. Here’s how much these celebs raked in.

With a name like MrBeast, perhaps it was only inevitable that he’d grow to be as big as he’s become. The 23 year old earned $54 million in 2021—the most of any YouTuber ever—as his videos accumulated 10 billion views, doubling from the previous year. What do people like so much? Well, the internet loves watching stunts, and MrBeast excels at delivering super-sized ones. In the last year, he has spent 50 hours buried alive, offered $10,000 to anyone willing to sit in a bathtub of snakes and hosted his own version of Squid Game, building replicas of the Netflix show’s sets.
MrBeast leads our latest list of the top-earning YouTubers for the first time and likely earns himself a spot among the world’s highest-paid entertainers. In fact, his $54 million payday would have put him in the Top 40 of our last Celebrity 100, a ranking of the top-paid stars across all of entertainment, above folks like Billie Eilish, Kim Kardashian, Angelina Jolie and even BTS. The two right behind MrBeast–No. 2 Jake Paul ($45 million) and No. 3 Markiplier ($38 million)–also would have made that Celebrity 100, which had a $35 million cutoff.
Altogether, the YouTubers collectively earned about $300 million in 2021—another record amount—up 40% from a year earlier, mostly propelled higher by increasing views on their YouTube channels and the ad revenue they generate from those videos. (More people than ever are on YouTube: The platform has close to 2 billion users now, a 40% increase in five years.) Around half their earnings come from that ad revenue. To pad their pay further, all these stars have branded merchandise lines. And they variously dabble in generating additional revenue from Twitch, Snap, Facebook, podcasts, NFTs—even hamburgers. A few have signed lucrative deals with Spotter, a Los Angeles startup buying up the rights to old YouTube videos.
Their chunky checks make one thing abundantly clear: It’s only getting harder to distinguish a digital star from an Angelina.

#1 MrBeast

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Thanks to that surge in views, his 2021 payday is almost double what last year’s No. 1 brought in. (That would be the $29.5 million brought in by Ryan Kaji, who slips to No. 7.) Another attention-grabbing project from 2021: MrBeast Burger, an app and menu that lets fans order MrBeast-branded meals from 1,600 restaurants across the country that have partnered with him to fulfill the orders. MrBeast handles the marketing, pushing the burgers at his nearly 90 million YouTube subscribers. He and the restaurants then split the profits from the orders. So far, the operation has sold 5 million sandwiches.
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#2 Jake Paul

Look who’s baaack: Paul returns to this list—he last made it in 2018 with $21.5 million in earnings—largely on the strength of his boxing earnings. He fought three well-publicized bouts last year with a pair of MMA fighters: one match with Ben Askren, two with Tyron Woodley. (Paul won them all.) In many ways, boxing, a sport long populated by contentious stars, is a natural fit for Paul, himself no stranger to controversy. He had been one of YouTube’s most popular names until his brother Logan posted a December 2017 video filmed in a Japanese forest grimly famous as a suicide spot. Fans hated it—deeming it distinctly in poor taste—and the backlash hit both Paul brothers. Their sponsors cut them, and YouTube demonetized them. Now, they can earn off YouTube ads again, but Jake posts less frequently than he once did, using the site mostly to market his boxing career, which now accounts for nearly 90% of his earnings.

#3 Markiplier

Few social media stars can move merch like Markiplier, who saw especially strong sales from the T-shirts, hoodies and other items tied to his Unus Annus series, the main reason his earnings have nearly doubled from our previous list. (Those Unus Annus videos were a collaboration with fellow YouTuber Ethan Nestor-Darling and ran on Markiplier’s YouTube channel starting in 2019. A year later, Markiplier deliberately deleted them all.) Next, Markiplier hopes to remake himself as a TV star. In 2021, he filmed a television adaptation of The Edge of Sleep, a post-apocalyptic thriller he initially dramatized as a podcast in 2019; the TV project still needs a home, and he hopes to sell the series to a company like Netflix or Hulu later this year. Markiplier remains a popular YouTube fixture (31 million subscribers), having first cemented his fame by recording himself playing things like Five Nights at Freddy’s, a video game about a haunted pizza place.

#4 Rhett and Link

What started as the duo hosting a nerdy daily talk show, Good Mythical Morning, has grown into something of an empire with spinoffs and brand extensions, boosting their views and earnings on YouTube. One of their most successful efforts: Mythical Kitchen, a cooking series with a separate host, Josh Scherer. The two-year-old show already has 1.8 million subscribers on YouTube. Another initiative is their Mythical Accelerator fund through which they intend to invest $5 million in other YouTubers. (They made their first deal in 2021, contributing an undisclosed sum to up-and-comer Jarvis Johnson.) And in October, they satisfied a longtime fan request to drop their family-friendly act, hosting a two-hour, decidedly R-rated livestream, an event to which they sold 70,000 tickets for as much as $50 a pop.

#5 Unspeakable

Unspeakable can’t shut up about Minecraft, the pixelated video game that’s now a childhood staple. Over 20 million people subscribe to his four YouTube channels, where he posts videos of himself playing Minecraft and other games. In other clips, he does things like fill a room with live alligators. Born in Houston as Nathan Graham, he has posted steadily on YouTube for the past decade. Last year, Unspeakable sold off his catalog of YouTube videos to Spotter, betting that he can use the lump sum to grow his business more quickly rather than wait for the videos to accrue ad revenue. (Spotter is now one of the largest independent owners of YouTube content, making several deals like the one for Unspeakable’s back catalog in recent years.) In the meantime, the Spotter money was at least enough to help Unspeakable debut here.

#6 Nastya

Nastya also did a Spotter deal last year, selling the monetization rights to her old YouTube videos to Spotter for cash upfront while retaining the rights to any new videos she puts up. The seven year old, who immigrated from Russia with her parents, has drawn in 87.5 million subscribers to her Like Nastya channel, where she chronicles her life in prosaic installments. (Top hits from 2021: videos about decorating Halloween cupcakes and about spending time with her best friends, Evelyn and Adrian.) Along with the Spotter money, she and her corporate minders have busily added other brand extensions, including a merchandise line and a NFT collection.

#7 Ryan Kaji

Ryan started on YouTube at the tender age of 4, reviewing and playing with toys. Now 10, his parents and the others guarding his business interests—that includes former Disney executive Chris Williams—are increasingly focused on keeping his brand alive as he ages out of playtime. The answer, they hope, may be the animated characters that costar with Ryan. (Thanks to Williams’ licensing and media startup pocket.watch, they’ve made some progress. One such character, Red Titan, a child superhero with a crimson cape and a passing resemblance to Ryan, has become well known enough to appear as a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon for the past two years.) For now, his main YouTube channel, Ryan’s World, maintains 31 million subscribers and an enormous line of branded merchandise and toys sold at big-box retailers like Target and Walmart.

#8 Dude Perfect

If it seems dangerous to you, it is gold for this sports-comedy fivesome (twins Coby and Cory Cotton, Garrett Hilbert, Cody Jones and Tyler Toney). Their videos are filled with things like someone bench-pressing 405 pounds underwater and walking on a biplane’s wings mid flight. What’s better than watching these stunts online? Seeing them up close and personal: The group will do their third live tour this summer in 24 cities. And for the bravest of heart at home, Dude Perfect last year published 101 Tricks, Tips, and Cool Stuff, a 250-page, photo-filled book complete with step-by-step instructions.

#9 Logan Paul

Like his brother Jake, Logan comes back to this list after a 2017 scandal pushed both siblings off. And like Jake, Logan has pivoted toward boxing. He had a bout last June against former world champion Floyd Mayweather, which, as an exhibition fight, had no official winner. As Logan continues to rehab his image, he had one of the first celebrity NFT releases with a $5 million sale last February, while his podcast, Impaulsive, has generated over 100 million YouTube views over the past year.

#10 Preston Arsement

Preston runs several YouTube channels, but the name of his most popular one, PrestonPlayz, says all you really need to know about him: The guy plays a lot of video games, mostly Minecraft. Nearly 12 million people subscribe to that four-year-old channel, which he has done a good job of keeping topical: In one of his most recent videos, he built a playable Minecraft version of the challenges from Squid Game.
youtube views
— Justin Birnbaum and Brett Knight contributed reporting.

METHODOLOGY:

These estimates measure earnings from January 1 to December 31, 2021, a change from our past lists, which looked at pay from June through June of a given year. Figures are pretax; fees for agents, managers and lawyers are not deducted. Earnings estimates are based on data from Captiv8, SocialBlade and Pollstar as well as interviews with industry insiders.
https://buyyoutubviews.com

My background: So I platinumed Hogwarts Legacy last month on PS5, and have played every Harry Potter game on PSOne, PS2, PS3 and PC. 100%ing each one of them. Read all the books, seen all the films, and am currently listening to the audiobooks as narrated by Stephen Fry on my commute to work, and whatnot.
Rationale for this thread: I know Avalanche is beginning work on a sequel, as these games were planned as a trilogy from the very onset. And I am really passionate about Harry Potter games, so I thought I would give some constructive criticisms that I hope the developers can see. Upvote if you agree and do add your own suggestions.
20 Hogwarts Legacy Constructive Criticisms + Suggestions for Sequel:
1) Collectables
Criticism: Spamming Revelio is a bit tedious. This mechanic was of course adopted from the Witcher 3 Witcher Sense, Horizon: Zero Dawn's Aloy ear device, and plenty other games. But holding Revelio is less annoying.
Solution: Famous Wizards and Witches Cards, like in HP1/HP2/HP3 (PS1/PS2/PC), as well as potentially Folio Bruti/Folio Magi pages if need be.
2) Duelling Tournaments
Criticism: The most we have are the introductory duels right at the beginning of the game, after duelling Sebastian Sallow. Where two of us, fight two other students.
Solution: We should have more of these, and in a tournament-like style. Look at Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (PSOne) and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (PS2) for inspiration.
3) Wizards Sports
Criticism: We did not have Quidditch (as they've no doubt heard a million times).
Solution: Add Quidditch sure, but also Gobstones, Wizard's Chess, Duelling Tournaments, but also quest lines that centre around these sports. If you read 'Quidditch: Through the Ages,' a Comic Relief charity book, it has plenty of lore related to Quidditch, do consult this.
4) Unseen Locations
Criticism: Plenty of areas we have missed out. Such as Azkaban was reserved solely for Hufflepuffs, which is fair enough, they deserve some special treatment. But if we do visit a new location, can we fully flesh out that location with a quest (or two) devoted solely to it?
Solution: Flesh out Azkaban, add St Mungo's Mental Asylum, French Beuaxbaton's Academy, Deutsch Durmstrang School, Godric's Hollow, and potentially even the Brazillian/Ugandan schools we've been hearing about?
PS. Let's get some Gillyweed and unexplore the underwater aspect of Hogwarts. We can access the Ravenclaw tower from the sky (like a Raven), we can access the Hufflepuff common room from the basement (like a beaver). Let's give the Slytherins something by letting them access their common room from the waters. In Goblet of Fire, we get to see the Mermaids there. Let's build an underwater-Hogwarts map.
5) Merlin's trials (these need to go!)
Criticism: You just copied+pasted these, over and over again, and stuck them across the map. This is qutie disrespectful of the player's time, and the game would increase in quality if their number was halved. There was no need to create so many, it's just a tedious grindful requirement for the platinum trophy, nothing more.
Solution: Remove these from the sequel. Nothing more needs to be said about these.
6) Platforming
Criticism: The first three HP games (PS1/PS2/PC) were platforming-heavy. To see the closest to platforming available on these games are in a few of the Merlin's trials and Depulso Puzzle Rooms, is not satisfactory.
Solution: Design the next iteration of Hogwarts Castle, as well as the remainder of the Wizarding World, around platforming. See HP1/HP2 on PS1/PS2/PC for the best iterations of this.
7) Hogwarts Secrets (Secret Rooms)
Criticism: The only secret passages/rooms that blew me away, were the three Hogwarts Secrets, of which there were only three.
Solution: We need more 'Hogwarts Secrets'-level secret rooms. These were clearly designed to a v. high standard. If you had to devote all the effort from the 76 or so merlin's trials and reinvest all this into adding just one more Hogwarts Secret, I'd consider this worthwhile.
And to take inspiration for secret rooms from the first three PS1/PS2/PC games, they're done so well.
8) Story (v. flat)
Criticism: Although everyone says Hogwarts Legacy is objectively the best Harry Potter game, which it does, visually-speaking, it is beautiful. It also has, objectively, the single-worst story. And I mean, objectively. The player has no real connection to this world if you stop to think about it for half a second. He (or she) has just received a 5th year letter to Hogwarts, randomly discovers he has ancient magickal abilities, and everything happens and he's just there to facilitate all of this.
I mean, I felt NOTHING when Professor Fig dies (MAJOR story spoiler) at the end of the game. This is outrageous to me, as I am quite emotional and lose it at the smallest things.
Solution: You're going to have to fit some lore into this character, give him/her a proper backstory of where this person fits in this world. When we play the Witcher 3, Geralt has his own backstory. In Horizon, Aloy has her own backstory. Retcon some in, it's direly needed.
9) Lore
Criticism: The lore in the Harry Potter films are so much more fun. When Professor McGonegal reveals the secrets about the founders of Hogwarts. In this game, it's a little bit dry, I don't even remember the professor's names. Was one of them, Professor FitzGerald or something?
Solution: Make the lore a little bit more cool please. Have some more build-up, and make it consequential. Weave it into the story.
10) Collectables
Criticism: Revelio pages, and Mr Moon's moonballs, just didn't do it for me. Nor did those wizarding outfits.
Solution: I want Chocolate Frogs (for health) and Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans (to unlock stuff?) I want them well-placed too, so it's fun to collect, as well as rewards for collecting them.
11) Player's Relationships w. Fellow Students v. Professors
Criticism: Harry Potter, was always with Ron and Hermione, doing things together as a trio. I felt so damned alone in this game, it was just me, with the professors. Maybe a few classmates? (Garreth Weasley, Amith of Ravenclaw, Sebastian Sallows, and the Gryffindor girl from Uganda). I only really got to grips with Sebastian Sallows and Ominus Gaunt as proper classmates. Everyone else felt dull. You guys did the Gryffindor girl from Uganda dirty. I love learning about foreign cultures and all. But her story bored me. She came across as an angry girl who wanted to play the hero because of prior and horrific family trauma. It should've been nice, but felt cheesy imho.
Solution: We really need to flesh out classmates, fully and properly, before we bond with the professors imho. I loved Professor Fig, but defos need friends from the class.
12) Co-operative v. Competitive Multiplayer
Criticism + Solution: Hey, if it's possible, perhaps we can have some co-op quests, and pull off some quests together? Rob Gringotts together? Duel together? Or heck, how about against each other? Duelling/Quidditch/Wizard's Chess etc.
13) Topics left me wanting
Criticism: We touched upon the Unspeakables (Defense against the Dark Arts), we touched upon centaurs (their prophecy), mermaids (wizard-mermaid diplomatic relations), Professor Nigellus Phineus Black (barely got to even know him), the ministry of magic, and more. Yet I feel like I know so little.
Solution: Let's flesh these things out.
14) House Points
Criticism: There was no House Points system to compete in.
Solution: HP1/HP2/HP3 have a terrific house-points system, where finding lost and found items, and more, all earn House Points.
15) Spells
Criticism: We need more spells, not just for combat, or the player-owned beast shelters in the RoR, but for navigation and other uses.
Solution: Spongify is a favourite, but there are more, look at the previous Harry Potter games.
16) Main menu times
Criticism: Takes a good 2-3 seconds for the menu to load up, this shouldn't take so long.
Solution: Target 0.5 seconds, menu doesn't need to be that pretty. Ergonomics > Aesthetics.
17) Fun end-of-game content
Criticism: In this game, we just had the end-of-year house cup, and that was it. At least we still get to explore Hogwarts and the wizarding world afterwards, so it's not all so bad.
Solution: Some games had a super bean bonus room, and whatnot. Let's make the end-game really something special next time.
18) Unexplored concepts
Solution: There's still plenty of stuff that can be added, a Triwizard Tournament, Animagi, Time Turners (not been destroyed yet), Memory Charms, the Mirror of Erised, Deathday Parties, the Quidditch World Cup, Aurors, Muggles and navigating across their world and more.
19) Revamped Hamlets
Criticism: Hamlets are quite stale if I am honest. Nothing much going on there, especially since they're not just any old hamlets... these are WIZARD AND WITCHES' hamlets! Was the Weasley's Burrow just like any old burrow?
Solution: Let's make these Hamlets a little more magical, increase their verticality and the things going on there, just like with Hogsmeade.
20) Gameplay mechanics (the most important criticism imho)
Criticism: I saved this for last deliberately, as aside from duelling, which Avalanche mostly got right, the gameplay turned mostly stale.
Could you refine three major elements in the sequel:
Solution 1 - Stealth Missions: Flesh out the invisibility cloak stealth missions if you can. I have always considered Harry Potter games to be stealth and platforming games, with elements of duelling, quidditch. But the stealth was limited here, and the platforming was virtually non-existant.
Solution 2 - Magical Lessons: When learning magical spells, check out Harry Potter 3 (PS2) for how lessons ought to be taught in Harry Potter video games. You learn the spell, and then immediately the wall opens behind the professor, and you go inside the secret room with two of your classmates, and play a mission deliberately designed to flesh out that spell's utility. Then you can use it after that lesson in the remainder of the Harry Potter world.
Solution 3 - Platforming: More rooms like the Depulso Puzzle Rooms, but for other spells, and not just depulso, and explore the platforming mechanic. Perhaps utilising a 'toy box' feel, like in the Spyro games, and Harry Potter PSOne games, where the player feels like a toy, and the world feels like a toybox? That would make platforming even more harmonious.

I knew I should have never left the trail.
My name is Kai, and I'm an experienced hiker. I've led countless expeditions through treacherous mountains, braving the elements and navigating the wilderness with ease. My friends trusted me to guide them on this adventure, but now we were all lost, and something sinister was lurking in the shadows.
I should have seen the signs. As we trekked further into the remote mountain range, the air grew colder, and the sense of isolation became palpable. It was as if the mountains themselves were trying to warn us of the danger that lay ahead.
My friends were no strangers to hiking, but they had never experienced a landscape as unforgiving as this. There was Tessa, a spirited woman with an infectious laugh and an affinity for wildlife. Her enthusiasm was a welcome contrast to the oppressive atmosphere that loomed over us. Jack, an aspiring writer, carried his journal wherever he went, documenting our journey in intricate detail. And then there was Emily, a quiet but resilient woman who could always be counted on in a crisis. We had been friends since college, and our bond had only grown stronger with time.
As we ventured deeper into the wilderness, an unspoken fear gripped us. It felt as though we were being watched by something that was always just out of sight. I tried to shake off this feeling, chalking it up to my imagination running wild. But as the days wore on, the evidence became harder to ignore.
One morning, we discovered that our food supplies had been torn apart. Claw marks marred our containers, and a putrid stench lingered in the air. We all exchanged anxious glances, the reality of our predicament beginning to sink in. Something was out there, and it was hungry.
We pressed on, determined not to let our fear consume us. As we ascended the mountain, the wind howled and whipped around us, threatening to steal the breath from our lungs. Our bodies ached with every step, but we refused to give up.
One night, as we huddled around the campfire, Jack shared a local legend he had discovered during his research. It was said that a beast roamed these mountains, a creature born of the darkness itself. The locals called it "The Shadow," and they whispered tales of its insatiable hunger and vicious nature. We exchanged nervous laughter, trying to dismiss the story as nothing more than folklore. But deep down, we all wondered if there was some truth to the terrifying legend.
It wasn't long before we realized that we were no longer alone. Strange noises haunted our every step, echoing through the desolate landscape. A guttural growl, a frenzied rustling in the bushes, the sudden snapping of branches - it was as if something was toying with us, reveling in our growing terror.
Tessa was the first to break. She became paranoid, convinced that The Shadow was stalking her. Her once bright eyes were now clouded with fear, and her laughter had long since faded. We tried to reassure her, but we all knew that we were just as afraid.
One night, as we slept, it struck. We were awoken by Tessa's blood-curdling scream, the sound chilling us to the bone. We scrambled to our feet, hearts pounding, as we searched for the source of her terror.
Tessa was gone.
All that remained was a trail of blood and the lingering scent of death. Panic set in, and we knew that we had to get out of this nightmare before it claimed us all. But with every step we took, it felt as though the darkness was closing in, suffocating us in its cold embrace.
As we stumbled through the under brush, the mountain's oppressive silence was shattered by the horrifying sounds of our friend being devoured. It was a symphony of agony, a grotesque cacophony that seemed to echo through our very souls. We couldn't help but imagine Tessa's terror as she met her gruesome end, and we knew that we could be next.
Desperation fueled our flight, driving us to push our bodies to the brink of collapse. Our legs burned, our lungs heaved, and the world around us became a blur of shadows and fear. We abandoned our supplies, our only goal to escape the malevolent force that hunted us.
It wasn't enough. One by one, the beast claimed its prey. Jack, the storyteller who had unwittingly foretold our doom, was taken as he tried to document our ordeal. We found his journal, its pages smeared with blood, a testament to the horror we had experienced.
Emily, the steadfast survivor, fought valiantly against the creature. She had managed to wound it with a makeshift spear, but her efforts only served to enrage the beast. I watched in horror as it tore her limb from limb, her screams a haunting echo that would stay with me forever.
I was the last one standing, the experienced guide who had led his friends to their deaths. As I stumbled through the unforgiving wilderness, I felt the weight of their loss bearing down on me. My guilt was a heavy chain that threatened to drag me to my own demise.
I don't know how long I wandered, days and nights blending into a never-ending nightmare. My body was broken, my spirit shattered, and I knew that I couldn't go on much longer.
But then, as if by some divine intervention, I stumbled upon the trail we had abandoned so long ago. My heart leapt with a flicker of hope, but I knew that I wasn't safe yet. The Shadow was still out there, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
I forced my weary body to move, to follow the path that would lead me back to civilization and away from this hellish landscape. I could feel the beast's presence, a tangible aura of malevolence that seemed to wrap around me like a shroud.
My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a countdown to my inevitable doom. I could almost feel the creature's breath on my neck, its claws poised to tear me apart.
But I refused to give in to my fear. With every last ounce of strength, I sprinted towards the edge of the forest, the promise of safety spurring me on. The beast snarled and snapped at my heels, but I didn't look back. I couldn't. To do so would mean certain death.
And then, just as the darkness threatened to swallow me whole, I burst into the clearing, the sun's warm embrace a stark contrast to the cold shadows that had haunted me for so long.
I had escaped. I had survived. But the memory of my friends and the horror we had faced would never leave me. The mountains now stood as a testament to their sacrifice, a grim reminder of the evil that lurked within their depths.
And though I would never set foot in those accursed mountains again, I knew that the beast, The Shadow, would continue to hunt. For there would always be those who dared to venture into its domain, driven by curiosity or a thirst for adventure.
But for me, the nightmare would never truly end. For as long as I lived, I would carry the weight of my friends' deaths and the knowledge of the unspeakable horror that hid among the shadows.
⏤⏤⏤⏤⏤

Prompt

Write a first-person scary story that is 8,000-12,000 words long and will leave adult readers on the edge of their seats. Your story should aim to create a sense of fear and unease, and leave the reader with a lasting impression of horror. Remember to keep the tone serious and to use elements of lightheartedness before the horror begins. Setting: A remote and treacherous mountain range, present day Characters: Kai, an experienced hiker leading a group of friends on an adventure Topic: Kai and his friends become lost in the wilderness and must face their own fears, as well as the threat of an unknown predator, in order to survive. Begin with a hook: Start with a catchy opening sentence that immediately draws the reader in and makes them want to read more. Develop your character: Create a protagonist that is relatable and easy for your readers to empathize with, then put them in situations that make them vulnerable to fear and terror. Use suspense: Build suspense through the use of foreshadowing, dark imagery, and descriptive details. Create an antagonist: Whether it's a supernatural entity or a human villain, your story should have a clear antagonist that is scary and threatening to the protagonist. Use sensory details: Use descriptive language to describe the sights, sounds, and smells of the environment and the protagonist's reactions to them. 

If you're new here, you should start here.
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I made myself a cup of coffee with shaky hands in the morning, the lack of sleep from staying up all night was getting to me.
It was only 7 AM, but I was getting jittery, I simply couldn't wait any longer, so I gulped the remainder of the bitter coffee down in one go and walked upstairs to my son's room.
The door was open, as it always had been because Liam hated closed doors in our house.
"If all the doors are open, then our house is one big room, meaning nobody is alone!" I remember him saying those words with the widest grin on his mouth as if he was the smartest boy on the planet at that moment. Maybe he was.
I peered inside his room quietly, he was sleeping soundly, cuddled up together with his Pikachu plushie. I walked inside his messy room, no matter how often we taught him to tidy up, he hated doing it, and we didn't feel like forcing him would be healthy.
My feet took me to his bedside, I gently ran my fingers through his messy brown hair- we never considered that Liam would have brown hair, because I was blonde, and my wife had gorgeous Auburn hair.
Liam began turning in bed groggily, releasing a yawn in the process.
"Good morning sleepy head," I said in a childish voice, smiling down at him, he was rubbing the sleep out of one eye, while the other was half open looking up at me.
"Dad?" He said in a confused voice. Usually, Alice was who woke him up when he was sleeping for too long, so seeing me must've been unusual.
Liam yawned again and stretched his arms. "Why are you here Daddy?"
I kneeled so we'd be face to face. "To wake you up, silly." Liam giggled at that.
"Okay okay, I'm awake." He giggled again, and then threw his covers to the side and jumped out of bed.
"Are you hungry?" I asked while beginning to walk towards the door.
"Yeah!" Liam said, now full of energy.
"What do you want to eat?"
Liam stopped flailing his arms around and placed a finger on his chin. I laughed. "What are you doing buddy?"
"I'm thinking." He said without moving an inch, and then a couple of seconds later. "Pancakes!"
"I want to eat pancakes!" "Pancakes pancakes!"
"Okay okay, bud, I'll go make some pancakes, and how about you tidy up your toys a little?"
Liam looked at me wide-eyed, like I had just said the unspeakable.
I laughed again and shook my head, proceeding to walk downstairs. It was no surprise that Liam was right behind me.
He sat down at the kitchen counter and noticed the Lego set. "Is that for me?!" He exclaimed loudly.
"Shh, your mommy's still sleeping." I scolded him. "Yeah, this is for you, sorry for leaving yesterday."
"It's okay Daddy." His grin was from ear to ear as he opened up the box and began playing with it. Meanwhile, I began making the pancake batter.
"Did Mommy give you my drawing?" Liam asked in a somewhat shaky voice.
I stopped whisking the batter and walked up to him, picking up his drawing in the process. His hands were shaking slightly, his eyes were pointed at his feet. "I did, it's a beautiful drawing, thank you, Liam."
Liam looked up at me, his eyes were tearing up. He looked scared, afraid. I moved my hand to wipe away a stray tear coming down his face. "Don't cry Liam, it's okay." He nodded and wiped away the snot coming out of his nose using the sleeve of his pajamas. I shook my head, somewhat amused.
"What is this supposed to be, Liam?" I placed his drawing in front of him.
He lifted his shaky hand and pointed at the boy with red eyes. "Daddy's friend." Then his hand moved to the boy with a red chest. "Daddy." His hand moved back down to his side.
"Where did you see this Liam?" He shook his head in response. "He said I can't say or you'll get hurt."
"Who did?" He shook his head again, his eyes tearing up again.
"It's okay Liam, daddy won't get hurt."
He looked up at me with his eyes full of wonder. I often wondered what he saw, or what he was looking for. At this moment, however, I knew what he was looking for. He was desperately searching for the truth in my eyes.
"Do you promise?" He sniffled.
I smiled at him. "I promise." I desperately tried not to let my eyes betray my fake promise.
Liam nodded and looked back at the picture, his shaky finger moving to it. "Daddy's friend told me."
"The boy with red eyes?" Liam nodded again and sniffled, wiping away his tears.
"Where did you see him?" He shook his head. I released the breath I was holding and tightly embraced my shaken son. "It's okay," I whispered into his ear, and he broke down crying.
After a couple of minutes, Liam calmed down, and his sobs turned to muffled sniffles. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned my head to see Alice standing there, looking at us with her worried eyes.
"What's wrong?" She whispered under her breath.
"I'll explain later." I mouthed back to her.
I looked back at Liam, who was clinging to me tightly. "Are you okay buddy?" He nodded. I slowly pulled back from Liam, who didn't seem to want to let go. Eventually, though, he did. Both our pajamas were covered in tears and snot.
Liam looked me up and down and giggled.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"My snot is on you!" He laughed out loud. I could hear my wife giggling behind me too.
I shook my head. "Well I'm going to go get changed, and Mommy will finish the pancakes okay?"
Alice looked at me in shock. And Liam just nodded. I took the picture with me as I walked upstairs.
Was it Lucifer? Was he the one talking with Liam? Is Lucifer the boy from my memories?
I should call Laura today and speak with her. But I don't have her number...
I changed out of my pajamas into black slacks and a white t-shirt, and after shoving Liam's drawing into my pocket, I began walking back downstairs. Liam was now happily playing with legos again, and the smell of pancakes wafted through the kitchen.
I walked over to my wife. "Why'd you wake him up so early? It's only half past seven."
"I needed to ask him about his drawing," I said in a serious tone, and when Alice glanced at me without saying anything, I continued explaining. "The two boys he drew, it's something from my memory. It's something that happened when I went missing for a month when I was eight."
Alice sighed. "That's barely a good enough reason to wake him up so early, that was almost 20 years ago, you should move on." She sounded disappointed. It's not like I wanted to suddenly start remembering, it's not like I asked for these bizarre and obscure dreams to haunt me in my sleep.
"I can't just move on." I sighed, desperately searching for the right words. "It haunts me, every day, I keep remembering more and more, I have nightmares about it."
Alice turned and looked me in the eyes. "Maybe.." She began speaking, her gaze dropping just below my eyes. "Maybe you should speak to a therapist again."
"A therapist?" I snarled under my breath. I couldn't believe her. "How is a therapist going to explain all those dead bodies I found under the cabin?"
"Maybe that's exactly why you should go to therapy, to get over that trauma, I can't imagine you being fine after discovering something like that." She raised her tone too.
I took a deep breath. "It's not that simple." She scoffed and turned back around to care for the pancakes. I took another deep breath. My stress levels were over the roof this morning, I needed a smoke, even though I had quit years ago, my wife still smoked. I walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into the hallway. I found Alice's purse and fished out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
I slipped into my flip-flops and walked outside, lighting the cigarette.
I took the first puff and immediately felt a little more at ease. But then I struggled with inhaling the smoke and began coughing.
Something shifted in my vision and I felt lightheaded, then suddenly my vision went black.
I blinked a couple of times and the light returned to me, my vision still blurry, I was in the forest.
"Marc! Marc!" I heard a distant voice whisper to me, it sounded distorted, like a glitch, like I wasn't supposed to hear it. I was still coughing, except this time I felt a hand covering my mouth, and the coughs were coming from the pits of my stomach, accompanied by blood.
I looked down at my arms, they were stained in it too.
To my left were the red eyes of the boy that saved me. Those eyes were full of desperation. Imagine you were climbing a cliff with your buddy and fell, how would your friend look at you as your body tumbled into the abyss?
"Stay quiet." He whispered into my ear. I had almost forgotten we were being chased.
This is just a vision. Then why does the excruciating pain in my chest feel so fucking real? It felt like I was being stabbed in the same place repeatedly, it was unbearable.
I could hear heavy footsteps treading all around us. It made me wonder, what was it that was pursuing us, and why? Could it be whatever or whoever turned into my grandmother? Something else entirely?
My breathing was heavy, it felt like I had a huge boulder weighing down on my lungs, and the coughing wasn't helping my situation.
We stayed like that, huddled up together in a bush for what felt like hours. Eventually, the footsteps began growing more and more distant, until we couldn't hear them anymore.
The pain however only worsened. I felt my savior's hand relax and it moved away from my mouth, and in that exact moment, I retched forward, a stream of blood escaping my mouth.
I fell backward with a rough landing, making me cough again, and then watched as the boy inspected me with curiosity.
"Your stitches came undone." He said while removing his shirt. "Can you move? get up?"
I shook my head in response. He lifted me and began trying to pressure my wound by tying his shirt around my torso. I couldn't even fathom how a boy my age knew to do something like this.
Despite the pain I felt all around my body right now, my mind was clear. I had so many questions I wanted to ask, but my lips wouldn't open, as if I wasn't meant to speak right now, as if fate itself was holding my mouth shut.
"There, should be better." The boy admired his handiwork. Then he began going through his pockets. He pulled out a zip-locked plastic bag with what looked to be white pills. He took one out. "Open wide." He instructed me, and I obliged. He placed the pill on the top of my tongue. "Try to swallow it, it'll make you feel better."
I wondered if it was a painkiller. And if it was, it was truly powerful, because as soon as I somehow managed to swallow the pill, the pain began subsiding in my chest. And not even a minute later, I could breathe again. It was gone. What is this miracle medicine?
"What happened?" I muttered still trying to catch my breath.
"Your organs- it- it took them." The reality of that didn't really hit me at first. It was like my eight-year-old mind didn't understand what that meant, but my twenty-eight-year-old mind was in full panic mode right now.
"Who did?"
"It." The boy was crouching beside me, still alert for whatever or whoever was chasing us.
"Was it who was chasing us?"
He nodded. I pulled myself off the ground, slightly wincing in pain.
I could tell my younger mind didn't understand what organs meant, and I could tell that it was curious.
"What organs did it take?" The boy looked me in the eyes with surprise. He scratched his head as if deciding whether to tell me or not.
Then he stood up and motioned for me to follow. "I'll take you where it's safe." I felt at ease with this boy. But his red eyes scared me. I had never seen someone with red eyes before.
We quietly walked through the forest, jumping at every twig snapping, or leaves crunching.
The conversations were minimal and done in hushed whispers. "What's your name?" He asked me after some time.
"Marc, what's yours?" I answered and asked back.
"Iris. He replied, glancing back to make sure I was right behind him.
I smiled at him, and he turned back. We continued walking through the eerily still and dark forest in silence.
After a couple more minutes Iris stopped walking and I almost bumped into him. "We're here." He took hold of my hand, which surprised me. He pulled me to stand next to him, and in front of us was a tall spiral staircase made of brick, or stone, looking brand new. He clutched my hand tightly. "All of them."
"What?" I asked, confused.
"It took all of them." He said again.
He pulled me forward to walk, and my vision grew blurry. Both of my eyes were stinging intense like I had something inside of them. I tried to blink it out, and soon the light began returning to me, sunlight.
The intense burning receded and I could see again. I was back on my front porch. My cigarette was nothing but a burnt-up bud.
My head was throbbing with an intensity I hadn't felt before and I felt light-headed, I held onto the doorframe for support. Once the sudden wave had passed, I steadied myself and re-entered my house.
The sudden waft of pancakes relaxed my tensed-up body that was still feeling the distant sting of the chest wound from my memories. I still hadn't fully processed what happened, the things that I learned, the things that it meant.
I instinctively pulled out my son's drawing from my pocket. My blood froze when I saw it. It had changed. I saw the backs of two boys holding hands and in front of them a spiral staircase leading to nowhere. Why did it change- how did it change?
I walked into the kitchen still looking at the drawing. Liam was eating his pancakes and my wife was nowhere to be seen. "Liam," I said in a higher-pitched tone. He looked at me with curiosity.
Then his eyes went wide when he saw the drawing I was holding.
"Do you know something about this?" My tone was serious. He swallowed.
"It's you and your friend." I sighed. I need to calm down, Liam has done nothing wrong.
"I'm sorry Liam." I apologized to him and walked upstairs.
I need to clear my head. I also want to go to the forest. Maybe I can find these stairs I've been dreaming about. But I can't go alone, I still remember being stalked by whatever or whoever was in the forest the last time I went.
I search for my phone and call my best friend, Chris.
It rings for about 15 seconds before he picks up. "Marc, why are you calling me so early?"
"Do you want to accompany me to the forest?"
----------------------
Part 4

The party (lvl10) went to dinner with the plan to attack and kill strahd. They find themselves dining with Strahd, two brides, and a vampire Ireena (not Tatyana) who they left in Vallaki and made a very minor attempt to ensure her protection—she replaced one of the brides the party killed. They surprise cast Steel Wind Strike and fight the dinner hosts. Strahd toys with them and leaves the brides and Rahadin to finish them off. The fight in the dining hall completes with Rahadin retreating deeper into the castle and the brides reduced to mist and they start searching the castle for strahd. They find the chapel with the idol of Ravenkind and assume it’s safe. Little do they know the body on the altar is an unspeakable horror and up in the rafters were a couple Strigoi and a Boneless. Strahd set up a trap for anyone trying to take the idol.
The unspeakable horror kills the cleric and a strigoi gets a perfectly timed critical and kills the wizard who is the wife (and Tatyana) of the bard. All that’s left of the wizard is a skin suit and the bard auto-fails his horror check for watching his greatest fear happen i. The worst way imaginable and goes insane charging off into the castle without the others, to kill strahd. Bard gets to the brazier and chooses to jump in, while the party catches up three rounds later, with no idea where the bard is. The party jumps into the brazier hoping that’s where he went, and they now find themselves in the coffin maker shop with the clerics body and the bard has gone full Buffalo Bill with the skin suit.
No idea what is going to happen next. The coffin maker was a little anti-climatic, but still great. The Bard now has a permanent madness and somehow he has to find a way to resurrect his love, or perhaps straight back into Castle Ravenloft, which is on full lockdown. Will they head straight back to Ravenloft and try to break in, or go see madam Eva or the Abbot for advice. Can or will Madam Eva or the Abbot help? Does resurrection even work, they have no idea—Kasimir seems to believe there’s a way to resurrect someone. Is it the end of the campaign or a trek to the Amber temple, where artifacts and powerful deals can be made?

26.01.2023. I have done it. For 30 years I waited. For 30 years you managed to survive. 30 years... until you gave up.
Well, maybe I should start over. I am a demon. Yes, we do exist and believe it or not, there are more of us alive than you humans think. The only difference is that we do not exist here in our physical form but our soul can enter your bodies. You can think of it roughly as astral travel, and usually we try to break your spirit, feeding you nightmares of unspeakable torment and agony until you are weak enough for us to take over your bodies. Why do we do this? Well the underworld is a cruel place and even for us demons it is not easy to survive there. Some see your world as a kind of vacation resort, others just want to cause chaos. But for me it was different.
Which is also the reason why I am writing this. It's a good thing that I know one of your many languages, because writing a diary in Enochian would be incomprehensible for you. And yes I know. Enochian is the language of the angels, but we speak it too. After all, we are descended from the angels. Anyway, I am writing this to leave something for posterity. To show that not all of my race embody pure evil and ... to warn you.
But everything one after the other. As already mentioned, the whole thing was a little different with me. Immediately after my birth in the underworld, my spirit was transferred into your world, purely into the body of a small, weak infant. Why? I do not know. But it does not matter either. So i grew up in this world too, watching from the shadows. Learned together with the little boy. Walking, reading, writing, riding a bike, everything. I went to school with him, fought out his conflicts and fights with him. I was bullied with him, praised with him, loved and hated with him. We ourselves were hated, loved, cheated and deceived. Each of his birthdays, was also mine. Every gift, every toy we shared. We shared every pain, had the same friends, the same enemies, the same hobbies and the same lovers. Learned what it was to fall in love, to have sex and how it felt to be betrayed. All the time I was watching his life, which also became mine. In the end even completely.
The boy had reached his 19th year when I revealed myself to him. At that time still with the intention that it was my life and that I had to break in order to get what I wanted. Surprisingly, He took it quite calmly. He had already dealt with black magic himself and was not as surprised by my existence as I first suspected. He even tried to form a kind of bond with me. A friendly bond. Even though he had many strokes of fate behind him, he still kept his nice and friendly manner. I, however, refused. Even more: I was beside myself. In my eyes it was a defeat not to get what I wanted. Thus I left his body. I went to the underworld, to my world. I went into my body and never again wanted to set a foot in the rotting flesh of man. Thus I went into my real, demonic body. Only what I saw and learned there was anything but what I had imagined.
The underworld is a really cruel place. I will try to explain it to you as simply as possible: You can imagine the underworld as a kind of parallel to yours. Another planet where life and physics developed differently than on your planet. As far as I know, the underworld was a desolate land where hardly any life, let alone intelligent life, existed. Until the day when Lucifer, the devil himself, was cast out from the domain of the angels and landed in the underworld. Even his former followers, angels who shared his opinion, fell with him and became the first demons. From then on, the devil built his kingdom. A dictatorial regime with an immortal as its leader. However, from time to time bloody and never-ending wars raged between angels and demons. At the same time, various clans of demons also waged battles to usurp the supremacy of hell itself. For eons, war and death ruled the land until it was burned and devastated and hell itself became almost uninhabitable. But no one was able to overthrow the devil.
I just was there only for a few months, fighting every day to survive. Against wild monsters, other demons and also against a few angels. However, I managed to tear each of my enemies apart with the strength of my demonic body. I used my demonic magic and my death-bringing weapons to carve a bloody path littered with corpses, until at some point I realized why so many of my kind were trying to reach your domain. The underworld was, after all, a cruel place where no one wanted to spend his life voluntarily. Thus, purified and tired of the battles, I decided to leave my body and return to that of the boy, hoping that his offer of coexistence still existed. But when I came back, I had to realize with fright that something had changed in the life of the boy.
As many of you surely know, time is relative. And so time passes differently in the underworld than in your world. What was only a few months in hell for me, was several years in the life of the boy. By now he was a full-grown man, 7 or 28 years old, tired and broken as ... as I was. He apparently had many struggles and problems since my absence. He suffered from depression, had a low paying job, barely any food in the fridge, worried every day he wouldn't be able to pay the rent and end up on the street. He never knew which day would be his last and even though his sense of survival was strong, he tried to end it all prematurely. At that moment I wondered what this life, what your society, your government was doing to the boy, who used to be such a kind and good-hearted person that he felt love and friendship even in the face of a demon in the flesh.
We talked for hours. He told me about the suffering which he experienced and with which worries he had to fight. From the moment I no longer felt hostility towards him, I tried to help him as much as I could. I helped him to get a better job, gradually solved his problems, built new relationships with other people and improved the already existing ones. Slowly we brought his life back on the right track. Well ... what can I say. Life is a bitch and she is expensive.
New problems arose, mainly financial but also personal strokes of fate were the order of the day. It seemed like every time we solved a problem, two new ones came up. Like when you cut off a head of the Hydra and two new ones grew. Then we came to a decision: from time to time I took the lead so that he could retreat in spirit and take a break. I continued to live his life, solving his worries and problems, but it did not help much. And so we come to today. The day I decided to write this down. Last night, he came to me in my sleep. He decided that he could not go on like this and no matter what I advised him, he would not change his mind. He cut the connection with his body. His soul passed to the next world. I think... in the end his depression took him down. He left with his last words: "Don't forget me".
And so I sit here, alone with myself. With the promise to continue his legacy. Even though I have now achieved what I wanted so much in the beginning, I feel no satisfaction. Even demons can love other lives, even if they are human. I miss him. However, I will fulfill his last wish and not forget him until my own life ends.
What the course of events has shown me shakes me to the core. Shouldn't life be worth living? Doesn't everyone deserve to be happy? Satisfied and carefree to enjoy his life? Sometimes I feel that your world is not so different from mine. Even though humanity as a race is not as old as mine, it is currently racing towards its ultimate end. So let me give you a warning on the way: Get your shit together! It does not matter what it is about. Whether it is your climate, the conflicts and wars of your leaders, your famines or your inflation, which destroys several people's lives. If it goes on in such a way as at present, you create a second hell. I have seen the underworld, the true evil. You do not want that. So act. Stick together and direct your existence to the right path. Please ... this is now my world, my life, too. I have a promise to keep and I will. Well...
I don't know if this reaches you and if you dismiss this as truth or fiction. But if we should meet one day... remember my name. Never give up like the boy did. Even I as a demon know that there is always something worth fighting and living for. Even the worst time, even the darkest storm has an end. Don't forget that.
Signed: Berith.