The Worms that Walk

"I Will Not Make it Through This"

From the journal of Theodore Atticus

A short entry tonight is all that I can stand. In truth, I would rather leave well enough alone and not relive the ordeal, but more and more I begin to feel that this journal is not, in fact, for my own research records, but rather the message I will leave behind, that others may learn from my trials. I fear increasingly that I will not make it through this.

Our actual progress in investigating the Paradise Theater and discovering the fragment of Yog-Sothoth was negligible today, save for a brief run-in with local law enforcement as we attempted to break into the back door of the place. I believe Sara Landry is growing suspicious of us, but then I feel that way of most everyone these days, even of the others in my group…

Tonight, I have started to grasp exactly how insidious this threat is. Whereas before I may have thought that there was some way to simply go on with my life and pretend none of this had ever happened, I now know that is not the case. In the night, I awoke to find Dr. Harkness snooping about my room. I don’t know what came over me, but I was filled then with paranoid rage. “I should have known!” I thought to myself. “He’s never been one to be trusted! Too quiet! Too reserved! I’ve never liked him! Not since he pushed me from that window in the Carruthers house.” Suspicions crowded my mind then, all crystallizing in an instant. They seemed so clear. “And now he thinks to sneak into my room in the dead of night and steal my dagger, the one thing keeping the shadows at bay! I’ll not allow it!”

I leapt from my bed with a cry, seized my dagger from its place under my pillow, and then… oh gods… and then stabbed the poor man. I was intent in those moments in erasing him – even the very memory of him – from this world. I stabbed countless times. Stabbed until my arm grew weak. But then, as quickly as the rage had come, it abandoned me. I came to myself as though my mind had taken leave of my body and, upon returning, had found my body in a different place than where it had been left. I looked down and saw so much blood. More blood than it seems should have been able to be contained in one man. Blood thick and sticky on the floor, on my dagger, and on me. All over me, coating me in its incriminating smell, it’s damning consistency and hue. I stood mortified for what seemed like hours. Just stood without moving, without breathing. When air did come to my lungs, it came in cold, dry gasps, porcupine’s needles sticking in my pharynx.

My hands trembled violently, and I dropped the dagger. Just as it hit the floor, I awoke in my room. It had all been a dream. But a dream so immediate, so wholly embodied, that I wondered if it really had been all a conjuration of my mind, or whether instead it had taken place just as I had seen it, but in some other reality, some shadow of a mirror of our world. Were that the case, does it mean that I myself am capable of such an act? I fear too much to try to answer. I place the blame for this on that dagger, that accursed dagger. Daily, I grow more attached to it. It seems almost to speak to me, and I imagine I hear it, as one might fabricate the inner monologue of one’s pet. And just as one is prevented from discarding a beloved dog, I find myself unable to bear the thought of parting with the blade. I must break myself from it, but I know not how. It must happen soon, though, for the all-revealing eye draws ever closer, its audience enraptured but for the mirror girl dropping shards onto their delight and soon we shall sit with them in quiet contemplation of the formless thing on the silvery moon screen, screen of a door, door of a world of a thing that peels away the onion of the soul with the dancing peeler paring knife and guts the rotted fish of a mind of a men too small to prick with a needle in the yellowing squeamy screemy seamy gut in the additional writing illegible



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