The Worms that Walk

"The Awful Implications"

From the journal of Theodore Atticus

My world has been shaken, and I know not where I shall go from here. As previous entries have attested, I am intent on proving there was more than met the eye at Lower Walsherham, and that, indeed, forces beyond our mortal ken up until this moment are at work, writhing in its underbelly. I embarked on this mission of discovery, nay, revelation not only so that I might restore my tattered reputation among academics, but also so that I might show the world, with all its narrow-minded, myopic fools, the forces that exist just beyond their senses. It was a noble mission of enlightenment, or so I thought.

The events that transpired at the Carruthers house have, in simple terms, rocked the foundation of my values. I realize that I was up until now much like a child playing with a gun, heedless of the awful implications of my actions. I pursued powers far greater than myself, which were beyond my control, and which I understood poorly, at best. I have now brushed up against them for the first time, and it is as though blinders have been ripped from my eyes. I am now aware at all times of an evil lurking just below the surface of my psyche. Like a bright fish swimming near the surface of a muddy pond, it occasionally passes faintly before my consciousness before sinking back down into the murky depths of my brain. The symbol of Yog-Sothoth seems branded on my vision, appearing as an after-image, a ghost, when I expect it least. These are the powers I presumed to study, as though I could have enough mastery of them and myself to call it thus.

And now I am in possession of what purports to be a recipe for resurrection, a bona fide spell. Normally, before, I would have tingled with excitement and eagerness at the prospect of finally seeing my work vindicated, but now… Now I am filled only with dread. From what I saw in that house, this is no incantation for mere mortals to handle. The feline faces that stared out at me in ecstatic agony inside that dresser did not speak to a benevolent means of circumventing the pain of death and loss. Instead, they spoke of death heaped upon more death. The old house was filled to the brim with death. It spilled from the walls, it slept under the foundations, it decayed in the rooms… I wish I could leave it alone and forget, but now I feel that I must move forward, find closure, and try to search for answers to these questions before I will be free of what I have seen. I go forth now not as the learned professor, but as the desperate prey blindly barreling forth simply to say that he has lived for that many steps more.



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