The Voice In The Wilderness

     Once there was a little boy. He was different from most other boys his age; while they were outside running about and screaming, he would be reading a book, or drawing something. He had always been this way. He had always been different. At home, this uniqueness was allowed to thrive, to develop and  flourish. His parents were beyond pleased that their son could read at a much higher level than his peers, and they greatly enjoyed how keenly he picked up on things.

     Of course, his only problem did not stem from anything encountered at home; no, little Stan only threw tantrums when his mother tried to drop him off at school each morning. Stan hated school, and with good reason. He was put through so much pain there, for schools are full of the most cruel people in all the world; children. These other children saw this odd boy who was not very good at playing soccer, or running races. At first, it began with some jokes, little barbs and jibes that kids will throw carelessly at one another. As time passed, however, Stan was progressively treated worse. Jokes turned to insults. Insults turned into bullying. Bullying turned to isolation and exclusion. The isolation in turn led to violence.

     Stan endured it for a whole year before he finally gave in, tired of the bruises and the scrapes that he received every day from a particularly vicious boy, bigger and stronger than he. He told his parents, and thought the problem would go away, and for a time, it did! But eventually, Stan's tormentor returned, wicked as ever. Stan started to spend a lot of time alone on the schoolyard, sitting under the shade of the trees at the farthest end of the field. Things seemed simpler there; there was nobody to bother him, no bullies or classmates. Just the occasional sparrow or lone squirrel, searching for food. Stan thought it would be so much easier if he were an animal too. People who hurt animals got locked up, or sent away; nobody paid much mind when children hurt other children, dismissing it as "something we all went through", or "part of being a kid".

     One day, the bully kept following Stan, kicking him down and hitting him every time he tried to get away. He followed Stan all the way to the trees, mocking him all the while. This was wrong, the trees were Stan's place, and nobody else's. Something inside Stan finally snapped. He launched himself at the bully, catching him off-guard with his sudden ferocity. Stan was sent to the office once the teachers broke up the fight, sure, but he was let off with a warning, considering the problems the other student often created in class and in the yard. But word got around, about all the bruises and the bites and the black eye that Stan heaped upon that bully. As the years went by, other tormentors tried to take Stan down a peg, but all of them met similar fates; this time, without the involvement of the staff.

     "Psycho." Stan came to be known as such throughout his elementary years, following him all the way to high school. He even flexed it a few times when he encountered more opportunistic sadists along the way. But while it provided him some measure of armour against assailants and troublemakers, Stan's reputation was also a wall between him and the other students; nobody wanted to be friends with somebody so violent, after all. Stan tried desperately to break down the barriers, to reach out to other people. He met little success. Stan still enjoyed walking in the woods of the nearby creek; there was a sort of peace he found there, a sort of natural rhythm that eluded him when he was amongst all the complex trappings of society.

     Stan became particularly vexed when Rodney starting crossing paths with him. Stan always thought of Rodney as some defect; the boy talked big, and had his little group of friends, but he was dependant on a cane at 17 (and also very proficient at hitting others with that damned metal stick). Stan knew just how easy it would really be to reach out and rip that cane away, but then everybody loved Rodney. Stan couldn't touch him without being completely ostracized. So, he sought solace in the creek, trying to lose his worries in the beat of the natural world around him.

     Stan stayed out long enough to meet the new girl. She didn't know much about Stan's reputation (she had not been at Stan's high school for very long), so she was untainted by any preconceived notions. Stan tried to be more social, making a conscious effort to be friendly and amicable. Of course, Rodney noticed this. And of course, Rodney set a particularly brutish friend of his to harass Stan while she was present. To his credit, Stan endured the harassment for a whole week; then, the thug pushed him, and everything went red. By the time Stan realized what he was doing, the brute was on the ground, bleeding. Stan's "friend" was shocked, horrified by what he'd done.

     Stan stormed back to the woods, cut deeper than he had ever been cut by any knife. He tried to find the beat again, but his mind was so wracked with stormy thoughts that he could not calm down. Nobody cared about his side of the story! Nobody cared that it was those others who'd driven him to this point! Nobody saw that the stupid bastard deserved what he got, that he'd provoked him! They only saw a madman, a wild animal, when all the while he was only the beast they'd made him!

     And that's when Stan heard the beat again. It came from all around him, every leaf and tree and bird and bug and animal around. The wild quickened and awakened, stirred by the rhythm around it. No, not a rhythm anymore; it was clear now, tangible. Audible. A faint melody resonating at once from all around Stan, from the deepest heart of the woods, and from within Stan himself. He followed those haunting pipes into the trees, winding further and further away from the path, until he finally found the voice in the wilderness at a thicket's centre, ambling gnarled, clawed fingers that remembered the soil of ancient lands moving dextrously about a set of pipes. It lifted its head, made up of hundreds of living things, joined and woven together to spill over the thick hide that covered its' body. It spoke in a voice that had first allowed civilized man to define fear, telling Stan of the secrets of the woods--no, not any woods; his woods, Stan's woods.

     Soon, the music grew very loud, setting all the woods into a pulsing turmoil. Soon, Stan's mind had been emptied of all the words, filled instead by the music of inner primal instinct, now unbound, now free.

Silas, Part 5

Typhonia had to punish me. I tried really hard so that she wouldn't have to, but I failed.

Typhonia told me to kill Russell, and I almost did.

I'd repeated the cycle. Followed him. Watched him. Broke things he loved. I left notes. Wrote chalk messages on his house, on his driveway. Washed them all away when he went looking for the vandal, or when he went inside to call the police. They thought he was crazy.

He started failing. Started skipping classes. Started losing sleep. He became paranoid, lashing out at his friends. He was eventually sent to the guidance councillor. She reassured him. She fucking made that horrid, horrid boy, who beats people he deems "lesser" for fun, feel better about himself. She made him calm down. Set him up with a therapist. I was at a loss. He started to improve again, started to get that old, confident swagger back. He even slammed me into a locker, just for fun.

I couldn't just let that stand, could I?

I picked out a mask, a nice one too. Skeleton, full-cowl, latex moulded. I can articulate the mouth when I speak. Pulled on a hoodie, went to Russell's house at night. Put an envelope underneath the door mat. Then I stood outside his window for somewhere close to an hour, tapping the glass. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap.

Taptaptaptaptap.

Tap. Tap-

I couldn't make out everything that went on inside that room; I mostly noticed Russell, sleeping soundly under a pile of dirty sheets. He jolted upright, hair sticking up at odd ends. There just enough moonlight to savour the moment. His sleepy expression melted away, leaving abject terror as it fled his face. He chased me through the neighbourhood; I even let him keep sight of me, for about 10 minutes. Been running this area for a while. Know the ins and outs. He'd left his door open. Fiddled with the bolt for a while, so it wouldn't close properly. Pulled the envelope out further. Then I hid and waited.

He was freaking out. Called the therapist; I guess he really liked my artwork (self-centered prick, it was all about him, after all) because he screamed something and waved it around while on the line. He was going to bring it in. So, I slipped in, took the envelope. Ah, that was a good night.

It all went sour the next evening, because that was when Typhonia told me to kill Russell. 

I actually waited there, for a good three hours, ready to ram a knife in his chest. But each time I did it, I kept remembering all the times he'd beaten me. And this was worse, wasn't it? He wouldn't go quietly. This would be death. You don't come back from that. Dead is dead. Dead is gone. And so I did something really stupid. I thought I'd go back and say no, that I'd ignore Typhonia, even though Typhonia loved me so much and had only ever tried to help me and protect me, so Typhonia had to punish me for being so stupid, for hurting her and for hurting myself. Typhonia was very sad that she had to do it.

After a week, the skin started to grow back, and the bite marks and the tearing looked less bad. I bandaged them up, and I knew what I had to do. 

That jackass still hadn't fixed the bolt. He was out, then, at another therapy session. I grabbed everything he had, laptop, camera, photos, the lot. I left the door wide open. I left a trail of notes, easy enough for him to follow. I stopped at a little clearing in a trail; they'd tried to build a park here, once, and the pavement remained, cracked and overgrown. My gloves smell like gas, but it was worth it when it all went up. By the time he got there, it was dark, and the fire was burning low. 

Russell brought a tire iron. He looked worn, thin, haggard. Some crazed glint of desperation caught the firelight, trapped it in his eyes. He screamed loudly, bellowing and demanding that whoever was messing with him come out and fight. He was a man nearing the end of his rope. He was ready to use that tire iron.

It didn't matter, of course. I was waiting. Hidden amongst the overgrowth, dark and welcoming in the soft, night breeze. The leaves and blades of grass hissed softly as they dragged and scraped against one another, a choir of small, quiet serpents. I knocked him over, slammed his head into the pavement a few times. I drew the knife. Blackened steel, catching none of the stars and their radiant gaze. I held it over him for a few minutes. I hesitated. I still didn't understand what I had to do. I didn't understand why Typhonia wanted me to kill him, I didn't see how this was what was best for me...

And then my teeth clacked, and my brain rattled in my skull. I fell over. Russell had gotten hold of the tire iron again. I raised my arm just in time, stumbled forward just enough to save my face and lessen the blow. Another sunburst of pain blossomed there, raw and pulsating. He raised his arm again to swing, caught up in a frenzy. The same frenzy I'd seen him beat someone almost to death in.

 I panicked.

 I stepped forward.

Russell let out a yelp, gurgled.

I felt something warm running over my glove. 

Russell slumped forward, almost touching me. 

I pulled the knife out.

And at last, Russell was gone.

Typhonia was so happy. Typhonia knew I finally understood that he was truly bad, that he needed to be stopped. Typhonia embraced me again, and all the pain and exhaustion slipped away. I'm going with her now. Typhonia tells me I've earned my reward, as her familiar. I'm going to go with her and I'll be happy and free and safe and loved and I'll fix the other bad people too, so there won't ever be another Russell out there to hurt anyone again. Typhonia knows how to spot them, how to tell them from normal people, so Typhonia will tell me and I'll kill them, I'll kill every one Typhonia shows me need to be killed, and then Typhonia will love me and I will finally be able to say someone cares---

[Silas' journal ends here.]

Silas, Part 4

The first day, I slashed Russell's tires. I waited a while, then watched him rage behind a wall of green. 

The second day, I pulled the hood up and smashed the guts with a crowbar. When Russell got home, he flew into another frenzy. He searched behind the hedge this time, but it didn't matter; I like the view better from his neighbour's tree.

The third day, I tore out the steering wheel and the pedals while the sun began its' ascent. By the time Russell saw the damage and finished his fit, he was late for first period. 

And that dumb piece of shit still didn't get it. Every day, Russell lashed out more. His bullying became worse. He nearly beat the crap out of some kid. Even his pack of dipshits was afraid of him, now. It's like he couldn't see the blatantly obvious trail of cause and effect. He did nothing to improve the situation; the police were never called. I was really tired by this point. Typhonia still didn't feel my work was good enough, I wasn't allowed to sleep. The pain subsided when I vandalized the car, but still ached dully once I'd stopped. Russell just wasn't going to learn anything.

The fourth day, I rolled up some newspaper, dipped it in some gasoline, and stuck it into the gas tank. It only took a few seconds for the torch to light up. I was halfway down the street when the inferno roared, consuming Russell's pride and joy. 

That night, Typhonia was smiling. It wasn't a big smile, she doesn't really do grins. It was a small smile,  but it lit up her dark features nonetheless. She was satisfied...but somehow, I could sense more, I could feel her elation at what I'd done.  

"You did very well, Silas." She ran a rough, scaled hand gently over my face. I nodded, now somewhat nervous. The consequences of my actions crept into my mind.

"But, what if the police find out who did it?" 

"They won't, Silas, don't worry. You were careful. You were smart." She assured me. But it was too late; I was able to feel, suddenly, dread as my mind conjured all sorts of retributions that Russell might enact if he ever found out what I'd done. I was all alone. Joe and Martha were on a business trip, not that they'd have cared enough to stop Russell from hurting me. My real parents were dead. I didn't have any real friends, nobody who'd defend me. I shrank away from Typhonia, lost in thought, moving away from her touch as I retreated to the far edge of the bed. It felt like I was going to have another episode, another long evening where everything turned grey, all energy and effort drained from my body. School sometimes made me to feel that way. Russell always made me feel that way.

Typhonia must have felt it too. She pulled herself towards me, scales whispering as they slid across the sheets. Her eyes were still reptilian, still cold. But...but there was something in them. Concern, almost. I wasn't paralyzed when I met them this time. I stayed still instinctively. She coiled her tail around me; I panicked, struggled. But it wasn't a punishment, I wasn't being crushed. Typhonia drew me into a close embrace. I could feel the ridges of her scales pushing into my skin-

"I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. Not Russell, not the police, not your foster parents. Nobody." There was a fierce protectiveness in her voice. I also heard something possessive in it, but...I believed her when she said it. Typhonia wasn't going to let anything bad happen to me. except what she does when I don't listen, that's different, she has to make me listen. She doesn't want to, but she has to. 

Typhonia answers to something too. Something else. Something greater. I saw It once, when I woke up in the night. She was still close by, peering into my mother's mirror. I didn't see much, just the light coming from the mirror. But I heard It. It had a voice that sounded like nails on glass, like shattering mirrors and the screech of metal. I clamped my hands over my ears, feeling blood on my hands as they revolted against the mirror thing's speech. Typhonia was tense, small tremors running up and down her spine and through her tail. When the voice grew louder, loud enough for me to hear despite my hands, she screeched in pain. It was a few hours before the voice finally stopped.

She only hurts me when she has to. She's all I have, the only one who cares about me anymore. So I lay on my bed, crying softly as Typhonia held me. I received my reward, falling asleep in her embrace.

Silas, Part 3

She Typhonia wasn't happy with my first attempts. I would just follow him at school, watch him at lunch, walk his routes in the halls. It felt wrong at first, the more I thought about listening to something Typhonia after she'd hurt me. My bite would start burning. Every time I nodded off to sleep, it felt like a fire started in my veins, then all over my body. On the third day, I started to think that maybe Typhonia meant something more intimate than stalking Russell at school. I would say to myself "No, I'm doing what she said, I'm following him. He's an asshole, but I don't know what'll come of doing anything more. I'm not gonna be responsible for his death."

But then I started listening to Russell talk. I got to hear all about the girls he'd screwed, all the horrible shit he thought about me and other people. Sometimes, I saw him make out with his thirteen-year-old girlfriend; sometimes I saw him go further, despite her protests. I stopped making excuses for Russell. I started thinking that the least he deserved was watching. I'd follow him after school. I learned the bus routes he'd take to get home; I saw where his house was; I observed him while he'd work on this shitty car in the afternoon, swapping out parts and cleaning them. I was very careful to always put a good distance between us; I mostly watched him through binoculars. Russell has muscle enough to back up his violent threats. 

Typhonia came again, when Joe and Martha left me alone with a box of KD for supper. I didn't bother making it; I knew she'd be waiting for me. I went upstairs in the dark to an empty bedroom. I was freaking out until a pair of arms wrapped around my neck when I collapsed onto the couch. I tensed up, afraid of those scales cutting into my throat. The muscles beneath them were relaxed, though. 

"You did great, Silas." She purred in my ear. I could feel her breath on my face. Instinctively, I grabbed her arms, trying to pull free. She snorted, startled and amused all at once. It took her about five seconds to twist my arms behind my back, straining against their joints when I squirmed and cried out. Typhonia clicked her tongue disapprovingly. I finally fell silent. "Let's not ruin the moment, Silas. You did a good job!" She eased me forward into the cushions. I could hear her sliding her serpentine bulk over the couch as she eased herself atop me, then felt it trap my legs underneath. 

"You get rewarded when you do a good job. I promised to take away the pain, didn't I?" I felt the bite's throbbing pain ebb away slowly, lessening every time I let out a breath. I felt an odd sense of euphoria; I also realized how tired I was. 

"I always keep my promises," I heard Typhonia say softly before my eyes closed. 

I woke up in bed, Typhonia resting atop her coiled tail beside me. "Glad you slept well." The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. She reached out to touch my face. I didn't flinch away this time. "I need you to do something else for me today, okay Silas?

"I need you to follow Russell again. But this time, do something more. Destroy something he loves."

I almost nodded. I almost agreed right then and there. It actually took me a moment to stop and think about what Typhonia was asking. Russell might be terrible, but I don't want to break any laws...I didn't want him to hurt me. I must have shaken my head unconsciously, because Typhonia frowned and leaned closer to me, paralyzing eyes locking me down as they scoured my soul. "You'll do it. Or you'll be punished." Her voice was commanding now, firm. All I could think of was Russell beating my skull in against the concrete. I shook my head again, trying to move away from Typhonia. Her face clouded over, now stormy and angry. 

I don't know where she got the knife from. I assume the kitchen. By the time she was done torturing punishing me, there were so many cuts on my inner thighs, deep angry gashes of red. She threw the knife away, gave me one more furious look. "I don't understand why you're willing to suffer so much for someone who'd do far, far worse to you if he ever got the chance." I managed to hear her hiss through the pain. 

The bite is hurting again. I can't sleep again. Everything's spiralling downwards again. She's right though; I know Russell would hurt me if he ever got the chance. I've seen him hurt people before, in fights. I'm sitting behind a hedge right now, watching that smug piece of shit wiping down his car right now. He's wearing a wifebeater, self-satisfied smirk on his face. I tried so hard to be empathetic, to remember that maybe he's the way he is because something bad happened to him. 

But I can't see it. I just see someone who makes bad things happen to other people. To me. I see a bully with a taste for ruling over people. Typhonia wants me to stop suffering, in a...well, in her own way. She wants me to put this fuck in his place. Maybe I'm in denial. Maybe I've wanted that to do that too, all along. 

Silas, Part 2

She was there today. I came home from work, got home ahead of everyone else, and when I opened the door to my bedroom, that dry air from the mirror was there to greet me. Tiny motes floated to the floor, glinting in the dying sunlight. 

She was in my bed, covers over her lower body, lounging comfortably. I was a bit uncomfortable at first, because I thought she was naked. That's when she noticed me. 

"I've been waiting for you all day. Where've you been?" Her voice was lilting, musical in its' curiosity. I averted my gaze as she raised her head towards me. Everything felt odd; the air seemed thick around me, my limbs felt heavy. "Who are you?" I managed to utter, tongue feeling thick and fuzzy. She let out a quick laugh. It was the most beautiful laugh I'd ever heard...but there was something almost bitter, almost sarcastic behind the notes it carried. There was something off about her almost-caramel toned skin, something-

"I'm Typhonia." She shifted on the bed, posture showing signs of irritation. Her legs seemed very thick under the covers. I noticed these odd bumps on her skin. "Look, Silas," she began, "that's your name, right?" I nodded, mute. There were fewer motes in the air now. There was definitely some discolouration wherever those bumps were. As she twitched her legs, they seemed to move at exactly the same time, in one rhythm almost too coordinated. 

"Silas, you're unhappy. You're tired of everyone treating you so badly. You're so, so full of hurt." Her voice carried an edge of real sympathy. I stumbled, eyes still travelling up and down her body. She sinuously brought a hand up, caressing her neck where my bite would be. Those bumps were defined now, small diamond shapes, almost...callouses?

"We're connected, you and I. I know what you're feeling. I know how much they hurt you," There was no small amount of venom in her tone, "but I can make it better."

"I can make the pain stop." I froze again. The blankets shifted every so slightly. Those callouses were all over her legs, close together. "All you have to do is follow someone, okay? Pick the person who's worst to you, and follow them for me. Can you do that?"

The last mote hit the ground. Everything was suddenly clear. The callouses were scales. Those legs weren't legs, they weren't even limbs. A tail was gently swaying beneath the blankets on my bed. This snake woman was moving towards me now, drawing me closer. 

I managed to answer, edging slowly, carefully back as I spoke. "No." I saw her mouth, lips dark and full, unable to contain the yellowed points of her fangs. 

"Oh, honey." I finally looked her in the eyes, met those green, serpentine eyes, a knee-jerk reaction. I felt myself being pulled away, the world falling out from under me. My head swam, and everything but her eyes blurred out of focus. She spoke again, and that melodic voice rang in my ears. 

"You really shouldn't have said that."

She coiled herself around me, scales chafing and cutting as they crushed my legs together. I felt her strength when she wrenched my arm in front of me...though those deep, faceted eyes locked me down, prevented me from doing much more than lamely squirming. She grabbed my hand firmly, carefully splaying my fingers out. I saw her hands, claws thick and sharp. She slid one under my thumb nail, cutting deeply. 

"Now, you have to understand. I don't like doing this-" She wrenched it free, clumps of flesh coming off. I screamed, but didn't blink. My eyes watered, my throat became raw. "-but you force me to punish you-" She picked my index finger next. "-when you disobey me like that!" Her tone was chastising as she pulled another nail out. 

Nine nails later. My throat was bloody. My eyes were red, hurting, my head throbbed. She'd left me with a pat on the back as I lay in agony on the bed. The bite on my neck felt as though it was on fire. I'm not going through that again, not ever again. She can find me, I know it, I saw her looking through a bathroom window. The bite caught fire when her gaze turned sour, and I was sent to the nurse's office. I can't escape her. She'll hurt me again if I don't listen.

But my foster family didn't notice. Didn't care. They didn't bother asking why I was wearing gloves in May. I was gritting through it all, resolved to ignore her, determined to be better. Then Russell called me a faggot before class, dumb little buddies all a-grin. I listened to him egg them on as they took turns  insulting me.

That's why I'm following him.

Silas, Part 1

My name is Silas Cadman. I am 17 years old. I need to remember that in case everything happening right now is some sort of psychotic break . I need to remember that in case everything happening right now is real, and I'm killed.

I wanted to get away from my shitty life, wanted it gone so badly. I was sick of being that weird kid on his own. I was tired of getting picked on and mocked by Russell and his douchebag friends. I didn't want to come home to my foster parents' feigned empathy anymore. I hated being looked down on because of the music I listened to, because I wasn't into sports, or because I wasn't "a real man", whatever that means. I spent a lot of time thinking and wishing for some escape, some way to get out. I'd look into the old silver-backed mirror my mother left me, my real mother, and pretend I was someone else. 

Yesterday, something changed. The worked metal covering the back of it suddenly became hot as I lay down, turning it over in my hands as dusk faded to darkness. I dropped it on my bed, sheets half-covering it. There was some kind of light shining through the threadbare covers, emanating from the mirrored glass. I flinched, both afraid and curious. I cautiously pulled back the cover, and dared to meet my reflection.

The mirror was rippling. I don't mean it was broken, or the light was hitting it in a strange way. The backwards world literally moved in waves, and my reflection became lost and muddled as it shifted. I knew that this wasn't right, that something about this was wrong and possibly dangerous, but I couldn't tear myself away. I felt a breeze on my face; a dry, hot whisper of a distant wind. My room wasn't well insulated, or well air-conditioned, but the stained window was shut, and my posters may have covered the walls, but they certainly weren't concealing any cracks. The more I looked at the mirror, the more the reflection distorted, the stronger the breeze felt. I leaned closer, trying to make out shapes in the glass. I caught a glimpse of a face...but it wasn't my face. It was a different face, female and beautiful with odd green-eyes and--and an intent look on her face, cold in some predatory way. Her face looked rough around the edges, like little bumps were creeping up and over her face. I tried to look at her more closely, but everything shifted again, changing into a mess of colour and light. I drew closer to the mirror, trying to focus. I quickly realized that I'd see better if I turned on a light. I reached for the switch, fingers trailing along the wall until they found the plastic switch casing.

That's when the mirror stopped. The colours grew darker, more vibrant, until it was green, swirling very slowly. One little circular spot grew brighter, and brighter, and brighter, until it was a drop of pure amber, slit by a line of black. I froze, hand extended, head half-turned as a line of white thickened and curved into a point. A faint hiss emitted from the mirror, like a tiny valve being released. Then, the line of colour sprang from the mirror, wicked fangs set into a terrifying mouth that closed around the side and back of my neck. I screamed, clawing at the thing as pain welled up. My head throbbed. I felt the base of my spine seize, and my everything went white. 

When I woke up, I was lying back on the bed. My hand flew to my neck, but the only thing there was a deep bite mark. For a while, I sat bolt upright on my bed, afraid to step off and expose my ankles...but apparently it was gone. I went to the bathroom, too afraid to look into my mother's hand mirror anymore. The bite looked bad, red and raw. I bumped into Joe, on his way to bed after a long evening of watching whatever game happened to be on instead of talking to his reject foster kid. He grunted noncommittally at me, blind to the injury. Today, nobody I talked to can find anything wrong with my neck, but I can feel it. I can see it. 

I put the mirror in a small black box, put the box deep into my closet, covered it with clothes. I've cleaned everything out, swept it with a flashlight and a baseball bat. Whatever attacked me is gone. 

What's happening to me?

Let me tell you a story...

....or perhaps two stories. Maybe even three stories? Why not five? Why not several?

Why don't I tell you every story I know? The stories that don't make it into the news? The stories deemed too horrible for the history books? The stories that we tell to keep each other up at night, our only comfort stemming from the sheer impossibility of such terrifying things existing? The stories that happen to our neighbours, to those ever-distant friends-of-friends that nobody seems to know?

What if I told you all of the true stories I know?

There is a place, beyond the world we know. A dark place. Sometimes, something crosses the threshold between this other place and ours, one foot in either realm. Some of these things can only reach such a state for a short time, making small, fleeting incursions into reality. Some of them, however, have been here for ages. These are the teeth and talons in the darkness, every thing that goes bump in the night. They have been with us for decades, and have acquired a powerful taste for human suffering. 

They have been known by many names throughout the long years mankind has cowered in the firelight as the day draws to an end. Misery Makers; Lords and Ladies; Fears. They are central to all of my stories. 

I will tell you about all of Them. The truth should be out there, even if so many thousands choose to ignore it. For many years, there has always been a storyteller, like me, who records the tales of the people They hunt. The more well-read among you may draw a link between those like myself and The Archive, but I must most emphatically stress that this is not the case. The Archive serves one of Them (yes, people do indeed serve them, voluntarily and otherwise); I would never serve Them. The Archive has had an advantage over me for some time now, for they have released some of their knowledge onto a blog similar to this one. 

I refuse to allow the truth to be warped and distorted by the enemy any longer. I will publish all the old stories I remember, and any new tales I find. So gather around the fire, stay a while, and listen to a poor, lonely Raconteur as he spins a story, true as the word of a king under a mountain.

The Chinese calendar says that the Year of The Snake will be upon us soon, does it not? That seems as fitting a place as any to start. There is much I can tell you about snakes...and their Mother.