The Otherling
The Otherling
https://amzn.to/2E5oIL7
Heather M. Walker
Prologue
Deep in the infernal glow of Hell’s belly, the Old Ones began to stir. Called forth out of a dreamless slumber by a growing sense of tension, where they had remained undisturbed for millennia, they awakened. Languidly they spread their scarred, battered wings and stretched their crooked limbs as their ancient eyes began to open. A growing sense of tension and unease began as a subtle stirring in the air and rose until it permeated Hell, down to the chambers in which they had slept undisturbed for millennia. Anger at being disturbed rose like bile in their throats. Ancient mouths filled with rows of hooked fangs yawned and snarled. Yet the Wise Ones knew, it had been no creature of Hell that had summoned them, no foolish mortal in the land of the Above that had recited age old incantations of beckoning. Things in the land of the Above were changing, shifting the balance of Good and Evil towards the powers of the Light. Narrowing newly opened eyes, the daemons concentrated and followed the signature of energy to its source in the world of mortals. The hideous ones smelled this change with flared nostrils, letting it fill their rotten lungs until it burst forth into their minds with a certain knowing.
A woman, innocent and naive, young and beautiful, unaware of the part she would play in the war to come. She would be easy enough prey, as the pure ones always were. There was no true need to worry; what match would she be for beings such as they?
She was enough of a threat to have awakened them, the oldest beings of diabolical renown, granted reprieve from the sufferings and tedious happenings of Hell. How this could be was unknown, and caused a commotion of growls as the Old Ones ascended from their sulfurous tombs. With growing blood lust, the need to destroy and devour filled them with powerful, hateful energy, filling their bones and sinews with the raw need to spill blood and ravage souls.
Having been newly born from the encrusted pits of Hell, they rose to their full heights, and shook off the filth in which they had slept for millennia. The sense of urgency washed over them, filling them with the need to act now before the powers of Good became absolute.
A figure stood among them, guiding them in the awakening. His long red hair spilled past his shoulders in a wave of crimson, flowing out around him as though it were dancing in some unseen tide of water. His wings were huge and mighty, far larger and more magnificent than any of the beings which stood before him.
“Rise my children,” He spoke, his eyes on fire, his voice both beautiful and terrible. “Your time to awaken has come. In the land of the Above, she grows in her powers, she can no longer be ignored. Destroy her and the one who will protect her, in any manner which you deem fit. For if you do not, the powers of the Darkness will lose its foothold on the mortal world, perhaps irrevocably. Arise and go forth, unleash your fury!”
With war cries, screams and growls they answered him, heads thrown back on terrible necks, great, clawed hands beating on scaled and rotted chests. One by one they opened the great expanses of their leathery wings, ready to burst forth from Hell and contaminate the world of the Above.
Smiling, the figure stood proudly in the chamber of Hell which had held the oldest, most monstrous of his children.
It was time for war.
Chapter One
Catharsis, The journal of Professor Sebastian James Bainbridge
Friday, August 5th
Today is the kind of day that slowly eats me alive. One of those where irritations gnaw at my nerves like parasites, with vicious smiles and blinking, glittering eyes that peer straight into my soul and see every sin I have ever committed. The kind of day where I am once again reminded of the circle of nothingness I tread in, living the same day over and over without respite, without change, without fail. On days like this, I get stuck in my own head, trapped in the morbidity that breeds there, like some stinking, rotting macabre thing, repulsive and yet endlessly fascinating. Thoughts spin and twirl and dance in the shadows of my consciousness, flitting about as if trying to dart out of my direct line of sight, teasing me with flailing limbs and gnashing teeth that sit in mouths speaking words I can’t even begin to fathom. Thoughts that lure me in, daring me to dance with them, to become lost in their world and partake of things which would stain me inextricably, should I be so haphazard in my judgment. I have seen where these dances lead; to the corners of my sanity. These morbid, hateful thoughts lick the gashes inflicted by this morose mental ballet, and then reopen the lips of my wounds, for no other reason than to see the blood run again.
Today, I am reminded again that I am not like others and never will be. Not that I would want to be so dense, so lost in my own flesh that I could never see the spirit and sparks of divinity, both dark and light, which dwell within. Yet, some days I wish I did not know such things; that I was not privy to my own past and the things I’ve learned, most by outright suffering. There are days when I wish I could be bathed clean of the darkness that hides inside me, allowing me to forget the things I’ve done, things I’ve been forced to do, before finally walking away. No, that’s not entirely correct. I can’t walk away from this thing, any more than I could outrun my own shadow. It is part of me, though I hide it well. Not that I have to hide the darkness from these silly, flesh beasts that call themselves human. They tend to reason away what they don’t understand, as if logic alone, however unlikely, is some sort of sacred balm to the inexplicable. I could make my eyes burn in their sockets and melt down my cheeks, and they would shake their heads and clear their throats nervously and say, “It’s the heat you know; what I saw simply cannot be.” Turning back to me they would smile uncertainly, silently begging me to agree with them, and then that would be that, the whole thing never to be thought of again. How easy, how simple, to think in such a way. Self-delusion, I suppose, is preferable to opening the mind and pontificating upon such things.
I digress. Suffice to say it was one of those days I am not fond of, when the dark, inky questions that reside in my secret places rear themselves for contemplation. I am not given to deep wells of emotion, but the anger that ignited in my chest today was slow to burn out and haunted me quite thoroughly. Not that anyone noticed and not that I was about to share this fact. What would be the point? Those that don’t already outright fear me, regard me as something of an anomaly anyway, so why give them more fodder for gossip and self-indulgent, meaningless ruminations? That I even walk among them is something I’ve been questioning, more and more, as of late. I am not ready to get into that, however; not just yet.
I am not altogether certain why I am even penning this, other than for some form of catharsis to exercise this demon of anger burning in me. I have kept this inside me for far too long. Everyone, even those like me (and I am not the only one, oh no, not by far!), need some form of release, and so here I am, black and gold Waterman pen pressed to parchment, trying to get the ghosts out of my head.
My name is Professor Sebastian James Bainbridge. At least it has been my name for long enough that it doesn’t sound foreign to me any longer. As to my name before that, well, we’ll get to that, won’t we?
I work at the University of Doltree, Georgia, teaching World Religions and philosophical musings to undergraduate students who, more often than not, are wayward souls that don’t seem to care about or understand anything I am trying to teach them. It is far more likely that they’re more concerned with sex, parties, and other irrelevant drivel that, ten years from now, won’t matter one iota. Ah, youth. Perhaps I only envy them, yes? I wonder what it’s like to be so carefree; to just simply not know. Sometimes I want to shake them; to burn sense into them with the sheer force of my will alone. It has been many years since I have had a remarkable pupil. Someone with the courage to question me, to argue some sort of point or another, or to care, even remotely about the polytheistic principals of Hinduism or the Five Pillars of Islam. I am resigned to this fact, realizing that most students see my course as some form of extracurricular escape and not something to be taken seriously.
Though previously I bemoaned my life’s redundancy, I did not mean my teachings and my classroom. I was speaking more of the way I live my life among these…people. Trying to be like them, or at least convince them (or myself) that I am more like them. It is tiring. I do find comfort in my classroom, in the feel and smell of ink on old pages, of words written long ago from the voices of men and women that were the finest minds of their time, of any time. I find peace in my routine, in the padded arms of knowledge, in the questions of the soul, in ancient rites and prayers and stories. It is the one thing I do enjoy, despite the dewy eyed uncaring youths.
I did not expect the administration to upend my peaceful routine. Beginning next week, when classes start for the year once more, I will no longer be teaching my classes alone. I am to have a young woman as an assistant, and a barely post pubescent one at that! An “expert in occultism”, I am told. Mrs. Tanner, the Chancellor, put it this way: “Your students are not engaged in your teaching, Sebastian, and attendance and enrollment are suffering. This is an attempt to garner more interest in the subject, and for your class.” I fought the urge to curse the brown wiry hair off of her head right then; to grab the silly rainbow glasses she wore on the thin perch of her nose and toss them across the room, for no other reason than to see the shock on her face, and to release the anger that had kindled itself in my chest, the same anger that, like a phantom, had been clinging to me tenaciously throughout the day. Instead, I composed myself and folded my hands in my lap.
“I assure you, I am more than capable of introducing occultism into the curriculum,” I told her, in a way I hoped was both calm and convincing. “There is no need to force upon me another person who will most likely end up in my way. It would be unfair to this new teacher, to put him in such a position.”
There was a brief twinkle in Mrs. Tanner’s eyes, then, “You mean to put her in such a position.” She paused to let this sink in before she continued. “I am afraid it has already been done, Sebastian. She starts next week. Her name is Annaleah Grace, and she will be here tomorrow to meet you and take a tour of her new campus. I expect you to be gracious.”
I closed my mouth at this. Gracious indeed! “Of course, Mrs. Tanner,” I said. What else could I have said? The outrage was there, like a hot coal, but I refused to lose my dignity. It seemed I had little choice in the matter, so what would be the point of showing her the enormity of my displeasure? I am not in the habit of making myself into an ass.
I’m glad I that I took up my pen. Writing seems to have calmed my nerves considerably, though I’m no happier with the situation. Perhaps, going forward, it would suit me to keep this journal of sorts, lest I uncharacteristically, in my infernal fury, hex the tongue out of someone’s mouth.
I wonder about this Annaleah Grace. I was told she is young, a mere baby of twenty-three. What could she know? How could she possibly add anything of use or interest to my classes that I myself could not, were I given a chance? Ah, such speculation is futile. There is nothing to be done about it now. Tomorrow I meet her.
I am not entirely sure that I will not give her a hard time.
~SJB
Chapter Two
The Untethering
Annaleah drifted comfortably in the space between consciousness and sleep, her mind gently shifting from the significance of tomorrow's meeting to more fanciful, whimsical things. Muted lights flickered beneath her lids, forming images that flowed from one pattern into another, a kaleidoscope of movement and color.
As her breathing slowed and deepened, she felt her focus become more internalized. Leaving the sensations of her body behind, ethereal pictures danced before her, pulling her further into unconsciousness. As the world of dreams began to take shape, she felt a peculiar awareness that she was weightless, as if she were floating through the ether towards whatever land her dreams would deliver her to. It was a calm, peaceful experience, one she let herself be transported into without effort or concern. She was no stranger to meditation, and that was what this felt the most like to her; a wonderful, serene meditation where a profound order was reached. Chaos seemed like a distant notion, discord like a rumor yet to be proven. Here, in this perfect microcosm of serenity, her impression of weightlessness increased. It deepened into a feeling of floating, an untethering from all that was not incorporeal. It felt like being released, a freedom which brought a budding elation.
The jubilation was something she fully embraced, wanting more. Seldom had she felt so liberated, so in the moment, so close to something unfathomable and paradisiacal.
Then, something cool, hard and flat pressed against her cheek. It was sudden and unexpected, and it startled her into opening her eyes. Confusion gave way to fear, as she tried to understand what was going on. Was she was pressed against...the ceiling? How could that be? She wanted to turn over to see if it was true, and as the thought was formed, she found herself turning over, without conscious effort.
She looked down and there she lay on the bed below, her long blonde hair pooled out over her azure pillow. Her creamy skin looked supple and spectral as the moonlight filtered in from the open curtains. Her lips were parted slightly as she slept, her expression placid. Emanating from her midriff was a shining silver cord, which snaked its way upwards to her astral form, connecting them both together.
As she gazed down at her sleeping form, something to her left caught her eye. A furtive movement from the shadows revealed a large hulking figure that was quick and somehow sinister, peeling itself from the darkness and carrying within it the promise of unfathomable wickedness.
Annaleah watched in terror as the monstrous form moved to hunch beside her. Curiously unable to look away, she took in the abhorrent shape that was darker than the blackest shadow she had ever seen. A strange mix of horror, wonder and confusion raged within her; never had she seen anything like this in all her years of exploring occultism. She had read of shadow people and evil creatures, but this was her first time seeing what she had for so long researched. It looked as if it were made from congealed oil, undulating within itself. Its head and shoulders were humanoid, but its arms were too long for its body, thin, spindly and insectile, terminating in barbs. These it waved over her, performing strange movements over her sleeping form. A chittering sound came from it, as if it were speaking a bizarre incantation in the language of some terrible, insect God.
Annaleah tried to scream, but no sound came. Now instead of a wonderful, weightless feeling, she was paralyzed with fear, unable to move or cry out. As if hearing her unuttered wail, the creature turned its awful head and fixed its gaze on her where she floated against the ceiling. It scrutinized her with glowing scarlet eyes, which emitted a foul light enough for her to see the horror that was its mouth. Jutting out from each side of its open jaws were what appeared to be mandibles, each one spread out wide and wavering, the sickening sound of chittering coming out of it louder and stronger, building upon itself like some repugnant prayer to a God she couldn't even begin to contemplate. Terror pierced her, pinning her motionless to the spot in which she hovered.
"Oh Goddess, please let me wake up!" Annaleah pleaded in her mind, unable to say the words aloud. Still the creature chittered, now ceasing its strange movements over her body. As the sound intensified it stood up, reaching a long arm upward. Its blood red eyes shone with ferocity, malice thickening the air between them.
Annaleah was certain she was about to be skewered, panic now a super nova inside her. "WAKE UP!!" She pleaded with herself, "Oh please wake up!"
Suddenly, she was falling. The sensation of weightlessness was over all at once as she plummeted back towards herself. To feel her soul re-enter her body was immediate and jarring. It stole the breath from her and made her heart gallop. Instantly she sat bolt upright in bed, winded, gasping for the breath her soul’s entry had stolen from her.
She instantly looked to the spot where the creature had stood, and was only faintly relieved to see nothing there. She scanned the room for the presence, and even though she saw nothing, she could still feel it in the room with her. She was bathed in a sheen of sticky sweat, still too stunned to scream. Exhausted, she crumpled onto the bed, too spent to cry.
She had an idea as to what the creature must be, something that clawed its way from the depths of Hell, be it a demon, a shadow person, or a malevolent thought form someone had conjured to terrify her. Why was it here, she wondered, and why now?
Annaleah was a white witch, one who did no harm to others, believing in the law of three; what you send out into the world, weather it is good or bad, will return to you threefold. She had always done her best to be polite and to offend no one. What had she done to attract such a malicious creature to her? Whatever the reason it had visited her, she knew one thing. It had meant to harm her.
Gathering whatever modicum of strength she had left, she lifted the pentacle which hung on a silver necklace against her chest. Squeezing it in her hand, she said, "Mother, Maiden and Crone, come to my side and bathe me in your light, protect me from that which seeks my harm and from all forms of darkness and negativity. Give me strength to repel that which is formed in shadows, and never leave my side. As I will it, so mote it be."
***
From the darkness of the shadows, where the moonlight failed to fall, it hid, listening. It saw the astral light of protection fall upon Annaleah, and enraged, turned to go back to where it had come from.
Through gnarled teeth and dripping mandibles it wailed, though Annaleah, now returned to her body and no longer in astral form, could no longer see nor hear it. So close, it had been, to ripping out the silver cord and being rid of her forever.
Now the Light had come, and was ever growing around his prey. Should he dare to stay longer, it would grow bright enough to sear his etheric form, perhaps even wounding him permanently. This little human was powerfully protected.
In one last act of hatred and defiance, it stretched over her praying form. Careful not to touch the light of protection surrounding her, it screamed and shook with the force and effort of its cry.
Let her have tonight. They would come for her soon enough.
https://amzn.to/2E5oIL7
Heather M. Walker
Prologue
Deep in the infernal glow of Hell’s belly, the Old Ones began to stir. Called forth out of a dreamless slumber by a growing sense of tension, where they had remained undisturbed for millennia, they awakened. Languidly they spread their scarred, battered wings and stretched their crooked limbs as their ancient eyes began to open. A growing sense of tension and unease began as a subtle stirring in the air and rose until it permeated Hell, down to the chambers in which they had slept undisturbed for millennia. Anger at being disturbed rose like bile in their throats. Ancient mouths filled with rows of hooked fangs yawned and snarled. Yet the Wise Ones knew, it had been no creature of Hell that had summoned them, no foolish mortal in the land of the Above that had recited age old incantations of beckoning. Things in the land of the Above were changing, shifting the balance of Good and Evil towards the powers of the Light. Narrowing newly opened eyes, the daemons concentrated and followed the signature of energy to its source in the world of mortals. The hideous ones smelled this change with flared nostrils, letting it fill their rotten lungs until it burst forth into their minds with a certain knowing.
A woman, innocent and naive, young and beautiful, unaware of the part she would play in the war to come. She would be easy enough prey, as the pure ones always were. There was no true need to worry; what match would she be for beings such as they?
She was enough of a threat to have awakened them, the oldest beings of diabolical renown, granted reprieve from the sufferings and tedious happenings of Hell. How this could be was unknown, and caused a commotion of growls as the Old Ones ascended from their sulfurous tombs. With growing blood lust, the need to destroy and devour filled them with powerful, hateful energy, filling their bones and sinews with the raw need to spill blood and ravage souls.
Having been newly born from the encrusted pits of Hell, they rose to their full heights, and shook off the filth in which they had slept for millennia. The sense of urgency washed over them, filling them with the need to act now before the powers of Good became absolute.
A figure stood among them, guiding them in the awakening. His long red hair spilled past his shoulders in a wave of crimson, flowing out around him as though it were dancing in some unseen tide of water. His wings were huge and mighty, far larger and more magnificent than any of the beings which stood before him.
“Rise my children,” He spoke, his eyes on fire, his voice both beautiful and terrible. “Your time to awaken has come. In the land of the Above, she grows in her powers, she can no longer be ignored. Destroy her and the one who will protect her, in any manner which you deem fit. For if you do not, the powers of the Darkness will lose its foothold on the mortal world, perhaps irrevocably. Arise and go forth, unleash your fury!”
With war cries, screams and growls they answered him, heads thrown back on terrible necks, great, clawed hands beating on scaled and rotted chests. One by one they opened the great expanses of their leathery wings, ready to burst forth from Hell and contaminate the world of the Above.
Smiling, the figure stood proudly in the chamber of Hell which had held the oldest, most monstrous of his children.
It was time for war.
Chapter One
Catharsis, The journal of Professor Sebastian James Bainbridge
Friday, August 5th
Today is the kind of day that slowly eats me alive. One of those where irritations gnaw at my nerves like parasites, with vicious smiles and blinking, glittering eyes that peer straight into my soul and see every sin I have ever committed. The kind of day where I am once again reminded of the circle of nothingness I tread in, living the same day over and over without respite, without change, without fail. On days like this, I get stuck in my own head, trapped in the morbidity that breeds there, like some stinking, rotting macabre thing, repulsive and yet endlessly fascinating. Thoughts spin and twirl and dance in the shadows of my consciousness, flitting about as if trying to dart out of my direct line of sight, teasing me with flailing limbs and gnashing teeth that sit in mouths speaking words I can’t even begin to fathom. Thoughts that lure me in, daring me to dance with them, to become lost in their world and partake of things which would stain me inextricably, should I be so haphazard in my judgment. I have seen where these dances lead; to the corners of my sanity. These morbid, hateful thoughts lick the gashes inflicted by this morose mental ballet, and then reopen the lips of my wounds, for no other reason than to see the blood run again.
Today, I am reminded again that I am not like others and never will be. Not that I would want to be so dense, so lost in my own flesh that I could never see the spirit and sparks of divinity, both dark and light, which dwell within. Yet, some days I wish I did not know such things; that I was not privy to my own past and the things I’ve learned, most by outright suffering. There are days when I wish I could be bathed clean of the darkness that hides inside me, allowing me to forget the things I’ve done, things I’ve been forced to do, before finally walking away. No, that’s not entirely correct. I can’t walk away from this thing, any more than I could outrun my own shadow. It is part of me, though I hide it well. Not that I have to hide the darkness from these silly, flesh beasts that call themselves human. They tend to reason away what they don’t understand, as if logic alone, however unlikely, is some sort of sacred balm to the inexplicable. I could make my eyes burn in their sockets and melt down my cheeks, and they would shake their heads and clear their throats nervously and say, “It’s the heat you know; what I saw simply cannot be.” Turning back to me they would smile uncertainly, silently begging me to agree with them, and then that would be that, the whole thing never to be thought of again. How easy, how simple, to think in such a way. Self-delusion, I suppose, is preferable to opening the mind and pontificating upon such things.
I digress. Suffice to say it was one of those days I am not fond of, when the dark, inky questions that reside in my secret places rear themselves for contemplation. I am not given to deep wells of emotion, but the anger that ignited in my chest today was slow to burn out and haunted me quite thoroughly. Not that anyone noticed and not that I was about to share this fact. What would be the point? Those that don’t already outright fear me, regard me as something of an anomaly anyway, so why give them more fodder for gossip and self-indulgent, meaningless ruminations? That I even walk among them is something I’ve been questioning, more and more, as of late. I am not ready to get into that, however; not just yet.
I am not altogether certain why I am even penning this, other than for some form of catharsis to exercise this demon of anger burning in me. I have kept this inside me for far too long. Everyone, even those like me (and I am not the only one, oh no, not by far!), need some form of release, and so here I am, black and gold Waterman pen pressed to parchment, trying to get the ghosts out of my head.
My name is Professor Sebastian James Bainbridge. At least it has been my name for long enough that it doesn’t sound foreign to me any longer. As to my name before that, well, we’ll get to that, won’t we?
I work at the University of Doltree, Georgia, teaching World Religions and philosophical musings to undergraduate students who, more often than not, are wayward souls that don’t seem to care about or understand anything I am trying to teach them. It is far more likely that they’re more concerned with sex, parties, and other irrelevant drivel that, ten years from now, won’t matter one iota. Ah, youth. Perhaps I only envy them, yes? I wonder what it’s like to be so carefree; to just simply not know. Sometimes I want to shake them; to burn sense into them with the sheer force of my will alone. It has been many years since I have had a remarkable pupil. Someone with the courage to question me, to argue some sort of point or another, or to care, even remotely about the polytheistic principals of Hinduism or the Five Pillars of Islam. I am resigned to this fact, realizing that most students see my course as some form of extracurricular escape and not something to be taken seriously.
Though previously I bemoaned my life’s redundancy, I did not mean my teachings and my classroom. I was speaking more of the way I live my life among these…people. Trying to be like them, or at least convince them (or myself) that I am more like them. It is tiring. I do find comfort in my classroom, in the feel and smell of ink on old pages, of words written long ago from the voices of men and women that were the finest minds of their time, of any time. I find peace in my routine, in the padded arms of knowledge, in the questions of the soul, in ancient rites and prayers and stories. It is the one thing I do enjoy, despite the dewy eyed uncaring youths.
I did not expect the administration to upend my peaceful routine. Beginning next week, when classes start for the year once more, I will no longer be teaching my classes alone. I am to have a young woman as an assistant, and a barely post pubescent one at that! An “expert in occultism”, I am told. Mrs. Tanner, the Chancellor, put it this way: “Your students are not engaged in your teaching, Sebastian, and attendance and enrollment are suffering. This is an attempt to garner more interest in the subject, and for your class.” I fought the urge to curse the brown wiry hair off of her head right then; to grab the silly rainbow glasses she wore on the thin perch of her nose and toss them across the room, for no other reason than to see the shock on her face, and to release the anger that had kindled itself in my chest, the same anger that, like a phantom, had been clinging to me tenaciously throughout the day. Instead, I composed myself and folded my hands in my lap.
“I assure you, I am more than capable of introducing occultism into the curriculum,” I told her, in a way I hoped was both calm and convincing. “There is no need to force upon me another person who will most likely end up in my way. It would be unfair to this new teacher, to put him in such a position.”
There was a brief twinkle in Mrs. Tanner’s eyes, then, “You mean to put her in such a position.” She paused to let this sink in before she continued. “I am afraid it has already been done, Sebastian. She starts next week. Her name is Annaleah Grace, and she will be here tomorrow to meet you and take a tour of her new campus. I expect you to be gracious.”
I closed my mouth at this. Gracious indeed! “Of course, Mrs. Tanner,” I said. What else could I have said? The outrage was there, like a hot coal, but I refused to lose my dignity. It seemed I had little choice in the matter, so what would be the point of showing her the enormity of my displeasure? I am not in the habit of making myself into an ass.
I’m glad I that I took up my pen. Writing seems to have calmed my nerves considerably, though I’m no happier with the situation. Perhaps, going forward, it would suit me to keep this journal of sorts, lest I uncharacteristically, in my infernal fury, hex the tongue out of someone’s mouth.
I wonder about this Annaleah Grace. I was told she is young, a mere baby of twenty-three. What could she know? How could she possibly add anything of use or interest to my classes that I myself could not, were I given a chance? Ah, such speculation is futile. There is nothing to be done about it now. Tomorrow I meet her.
I am not entirely sure that I will not give her a hard time.
~SJB
Chapter Two
The Untethering
Annaleah drifted comfortably in the space between consciousness and sleep, her mind gently shifting from the significance of tomorrow's meeting to more fanciful, whimsical things. Muted lights flickered beneath her lids, forming images that flowed from one pattern into another, a kaleidoscope of movement and color.
As her breathing slowed and deepened, she felt her focus become more internalized. Leaving the sensations of her body behind, ethereal pictures danced before her, pulling her further into unconsciousness. As the world of dreams began to take shape, she felt a peculiar awareness that she was weightless, as if she were floating through the ether towards whatever land her dreams would deliver her to. It was a calm, peaceful experience, one she let herself be transported into without effort or concern. She was no stranger to meditation, and that was what this felt the most like to her; a wonderful, serene meditation where a profound order was reached. Chaos seemed like a distant notion, discord like a rumor yet to be proven. Here, in this perfect microcosm of serenity, her impression of weightlessness increased. It deepened into a feeling of floating, an untethering from all that was not incorporeal. It felt like being released, a freedom which brought a budding elation.
The jubilation was something she fully embraced, wanting more. Seldom had she felt so liberated, so in the moment, so close to something unfathomable and paradisiacal.
Then, something cool, hard and flat pressed against her cheek. It was sudden and unexpected, and it startled her into opening her eyes. Confusion gave way to fear, as she tried to understand what was going on. Was she was pressed against...the ceiling? How could that be? She wanted to turn over to see if it was true, and as the thought was formed, she found herself turning over, without conscious effort.
She looked down and there she lay on the bed below, her long blonde hair pooled out over her azure pillow. Her creamy skin looked supple and spectral as the moonlight filtered in from the open curtains. Her lips were parted slightly as she slept, her expression placid. Emanating from her midriff was a shining silver cord, which snaked its way upwards to her astral form, connecting them both together.
As she gazed down at her sleeping form, something to her left caught her eye. A furtive movement from the shadows revealed a large hulking figure that was quick and somehow sinister, peeling itself from the darkness and carrying within it the promise of unfathomable wickedness.
Annaleah watched in terror as the monstrous form moved to hunch beside her. Curiously unable to look away, she took in the abhorrent shape that was darker than the blackest shadow she had ever seen. A strange mix of horror, wonder and confusion raged within her; never had she seen anything like this in all her years of exploring occultism. She had read of shadow people and evil creatures, but this was her first time seeing what she had for so long researched. It looked as if it were made from congealed oil, undulating within itself. Its head and shoulders were humanoid, but its arms were too long for its body, thin, spindly and insectile, terminating in barbs. These it waved over her, performing strange movements over her sleeping form. A chittering sound came from it, as if it were speaking a bizarre incantation in the language of some terrible, insect God.
Annaleah tried to scream, but no sound came. Now instead of a wonderful, weightless feeling, she was paralyzed with fear, unable to move or cry out. As if hearing her unuttered wail, the creature turned its awful head and fixed its gaze on her where she floated against the ceiling. It scrutinized her with glowing scarlet eyes, which emitted a foul light enough for her to see the horror that was its mouth. Jutting out from each side of its open jaws were what appeared to be mandibles, each one spread out wide and wavering, the sickening sound of chittering coming out of it louder and stronger, building upon itself like some repugnant prayer to a God she couldn't even begin to contemplate. Terror pierced her, pinning her motionless to the spot in which she hovered.
"Oh Goddess, please let me wake up!" Annaleah pleaded in her mind, unable to say the words aloud. Still the creature chittered, now ceasing its strange movements over her body. As the sound intensified it stood up, reaching a long arm upward. Its blood red eyes shone with ferocity, malice thickening the air between them.
Annaleah was certain she was about to be skewered, panic now a super nova inside her. "WAKE UP!!" She pleaded with herself, "Oh please wake up!"
Suddenly, she was falling. The sensation of weightlessness was over all at once as she plummeted back towards herself. To feel her soul re-enter her body was immediate and jarring. It stole the breath from her and made her heart gallop. Instantly she sat bolt upright in bed, winded, gasping for the breath her soul’s entry had stolen from her.
She instantly looked to the spot where the creature had stood, and was only faintly relieved to see nothing there. She scanned the room for the presence, and even though she saw nothing, she could still feel it in the room with her. She was bathed in a sheen of sticky sweat, still too stunned to scream. Exhausted, she crumpled onto the bed, too spent to cry.
She had an idea as to what the creature must be, something that clawed its way from the depths of Hell, be it a demon, a shadow person, or a malevolent thought form someone had conjured to terrify her. Why was it here, she wondered, and why now?
Annaleah was a white witch, one who did no harm to others, believing in the law of three; what you send out into the world, weather it is good or bad, will return to you threefold. She had always done her best to be polite and to offend no one. What had she done to attract such a malicious creature to her? Whatever the reason it had visited her, she knew one thing. It had meant to harm her.
Gathering whatever modicum of strength she had left, she lifted the pentacle which hung on a silver necklace against her chest. Squeezing it in her hand, she said, "Mother, Maiden and Crone, come to my side and bathe me in your light, protect me from that which seeks my harm and from all forms of darkness and negativity. Give me strength to repel that which is formed in shadows, and never leave my side. As I will it, so mote it be."
***
From the darkness of the shadows, where the moonlight failed to fall, it hid, listening. It saw the astral light of protection fall upon Annaleah, and enraged, turned to go back to where it had come from.
Through gnarled teeth and dripping mandibles it wailed, though Annaleah, now returned to her body and no longer in astral form, could no longer see nor hear it. So close, it had been, to ripping out the silver cord and being rid of her forever.
Now the Light had come, and was ever growing around his prey. Should he dare to stay longer, it would grow bright enough to sear his etheric form, perhaps even wounding him permanently. This little human was powerfully protected.
In one last act of hatred and defiance, it stretched over her praying form. Careful not to touch the light of protection surrounding her, it screamed and shook with the force and effort of its cry.
Let her have tonight. They would come for her soon enough.
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