Glimpses of the Dark
Thanks be to the Lord, who in His meciful wisdom has darkened the mind of man, and saved it from the knowledge of the aweful truth of eternal death. The reality of hell and the terror it balefully conjures by its very nature. The glimpses though, the glimpses of that terror that ghostily haunt the the dreams of those unfortunate souls whose plague it is to catch them, are enough to drive a man from his tightly knit veil of sanity and into the darkness of mad eternity.
Glimpses of souls not unlike thier own, lost, and alone, but eternally chased by unkown eldrich terrors so loathsome and unfathomable that words can not describe. Unseen voices barely audible, yet intimately close. Visions of unatural cathedrals, derelict tombs, and relic headstones enveloped by the eerily hand like roots of wormwood, and black drooping moss strangely still despite the faint blowing of a melevolent breeze. No names adorn these stones, scraped away aeons before, as if to obliterate all memory of those lost. The cathedral, at a distance, it would not seem out of place amongst those of the renaissance, if only for the odd dark hue not found in the known spectrum, and, if only for the aweful, unkown and unspoken air of true evil.
An odd scent floats by, vaguely and frightfully familiar. A voice is heard in a tone never lain upon the ears of men, in a language no human tongue can or would repeat. A language not heard or uttered in this realm, except in the dark gutters of hidden corners in long forgotten cities, and wildernesses so remote the foot of humanity as it is today known has never set thereupon.
As the cathedral grows closer the voice becomes voices, the lost souls fade silently into the inky black, and the true nature of the scene begins to set upon the mind. The forsaken soul reaches out without thought, without control, as if it were the hand of another. As it is lain upon the door the voices cease, the Cross upon the door slowly turns. The lost souls reappear at the edge of the darkness, sillouettes laughing, a maniacal laugh that chills and drives out what little sanity remains. As the door opens, death slowly wades out and the sickening reality falls and preys upon the souls mind, savagely murdering the last trace of sanity, pushing it into absolute, terrifying madness.
The gate has been opened, the beasts therein have been released, loosed upon our universe, allowed to pilage the hearts of all mankind.
The soul awakens, the vision ends. Sanity slowly returns. The knowledge remains though, the fear follows, the fear that grows ever stonger as the light grows weaker, as the night draws in, as sleep again threatens to lay seige upon the mind. Another, darker vision awaits, as sleep slowly, but forcibly drags the soul back into the ever deepening mire. That same evil, sickening odour returns, evermore familiar. A faint laugh is heard, and a voice, almost not real, but eternally intense. The sound of scratching upon the floor. Then falls the thunderous baachian crack, like a peal of unimaginable, unseen lightening... Sleep has won, sanity has once again been commanded to its cage. The soul has fallen once more into the clutches of its evil conjuring, the grasp of the nightmare returns.
The soul prays that this may be the end of its plague, the final appearance of these visions of an eternally forgotten death. The end of it's plague...