Biblioteka Obscura

~Welcome to the Sonic Blast Community Forum~
Greetings stranger, it is an honor to have you as a visitor. Since we opened in 2006 our goal has been to offer the most authentic Sonic-themed community on the web for Sonic enthusiasts new and old. We do our best to provide the most unique features, best Sonic-themed designs, and have the latest news; always improving to cover all of your Sonic needs. Our community is full of friendly people and we hope you enjoy your brief stay but would be thrilled if you decided to join in on the fun. Being a part of our community is easy, quick, and absolutely free.

Click here to join our community and enter the land of Mobius as a =SB= citizen!
Citizens may log in to their account to participate in our land's conversations and access all of our features:

Biblioteka Obscura; Kale's assorted writings
Tweet Topic Started: Feb 22 2013, 09:03 PM (182 Views)
Wallace	Feb 22 2013, 09:03 PM Post #1
Break out the L-word. The other L-word. Posts: 1,889 Group: S Rank Hero Member #11,873 Joined: February 24, 2011	So this is just a place for me to put a bunch of shit I write. Stories, poems, whatever. So here goes. Food Poisoning The Stroll, for Melanie, meant watching the sky roll past as the sea to her right rocked waves in its cradle, all the while wondering why God had to split the heavens and the seas. They were both such similar shades of blue, they might have been mistaken for sapphire eyes by a cosmic onlooker. There was a great peace in this annual tradition of hers; she wouldn’t have traded it for the world. And she hadn’t: she’d kept it since she was nine, through marriage and children. She had not missed a year yet, and there was no doubt by her friends and family that she would probably climb out of her grave to attend to the boardwalk after she was gone. This year had not been made difficult by any sort of trouble; and, at least today, the clouds were scarce, not daring to mar the sky for Melanie Craft. This small town by the Gulf wasn’t the most illustrious vacation destination nowadays due to fears about the spill, so there weren’t a lot of tourists, this afternoon. That was alright, to Melanie: this town was where she grew up, and to see it as close as possible to its state before the tourist boom of the ‘90s made her feel at home. Though this was a relaxing stroll, it was not without purpose: she and her husband, Frank, were heading for The Seymour Shack, a family-owned seafood joint on the boardwalk. Margaret Seymour, the current owner, was a childhood friend of Melanie’s. Melanie could recall – however distantly – many a day spent as a child playing with Marge on the boardwalk. When adolescence came and adulthood beckoned, they worked together at the Shack under Marge’s mother. They were the best of friends at the time, and though living away from each other, had maintained contact at first via the post, then by e-mail. Melanie thought about how Marge hadn’t responded to her last e-mail for several weeks. At first she had figured that Marge must have been too busy working because this summer’s tourist activity had gone up, but being here now, she doubted it – unless some surge had come and left like a hurricane before she and Frank could come down. Whatever the case, she resigned to ask Marge about her lack of communication when she arrived at the Shack. “Gee, I’m starvin’, Mel.” Melanie turned to look up at Frank. “Why do you gotta say, ‘gee,’ Frank? You make us sound old.” “We are old, Mel.” She punched his arm playfully . . . but with a certain frightfulness that Frank, thankfully, hadn’t seemed to notice. Frank had a face like stone, Melanie thought, when she first met him, that he was some sharply chiseled statue: handsome and strong. When they married, she thought him a rock she could always stick to, like some dainty, petalous lichen. When they were raising their two children, John and Esther, he was the strongest roof to keep out the torrential downpour of financial uncertainty. But now that the kids were either in college or on their own, and the finely formed lines weathered by age, she noticed that what she once saw in his face and body as solid stillness, was really a bridled violence waiting to erupt like some dormant volcano, quivering with explosive potential. Frank had never hit Melanie, or their children, or shown inclination to do so. But even so, for reasons she did not understand, Melanie was afraid of him the way one would fear a poorly mounted chandelier of great weight above one’s head, or of a bomb which may not have been disarmed properly. Perhaps this fear was fed by the fact that he was a silent man with dark eyes that always looked lost in some heavy thought, lips pursed tightly, a vault of demons ready to burst forth and free Pandora’s sins . . . but, no, he had never more than raised his voice to her or anyone. She could never admit this to him, but she felt safe and justified in the fact that there were plenty of things he might not admit to her. So with these irrational anxieties and thoughts tucked deeply in a pocket of her mind, she walked on with Frank to The Seymour Shack. When they arrived, the nearby newspaper man noticed them and waved them over to his stand in front of the shack. “Hey, Mel!” he said, “Hey, Frank!” He smiled warmly. “Never a missed year, eh, Mel?” “Never in a million years. Hey, Mick,” Melanie replied, giving him a one-armed hug around the shoulder. “Sorry to be all business, but care for a paper?” He held one out to her from the stack behind the stand. “Sure thing, Mickey.” She gave him a dollar, and took the paper. “So what’s been happening since . . .” Her voice trailed off as she read one of the front-page articles. “What’s this about a search for Marge?” Mick furrowed his old brow, offering a soft pitying smile. “She went missing about a month ago, just after selling the Shack to Ms. Stillwater –” “What?!” Melanie almost shouted. “Marge, sell the Shack? What kind of story is that, Mick?” “It’s true, Mel, just read that article, go get any of the papers from the past few weeks! She just sold the place, then disappeared!” “Who’s this Ms. Stillwater?” Melanie asked after she’d calmed down. “Oh, no one really knows. The papers never mention her by name; all they say is that Marge sold the Shack. I got curious and looked it up in the Records Office, and sure enough, she sold it, then gave the money away to some church I ain’t ever heard of down the coast a ways!” He leaned over the stand to whisper, “I think there’s some foul play that’s gone on with that Stillwater woman. It’s so mysterious, so suspicious! Everyone’s been talking about it. You know Marge was a prominent character here on the Boardwalk. But the Police Department won’t go near Stillwater, and truth be told, I don’t much blame ‘em: she gives me shivers. That woman’s got evil eyes, and I don’t dare eat here anymore. Got no choice but to stay, though, at least until absolutely everyone stops coming here, ‘cause this is a great place to sell papers, especially with this going about. Still a few regulars, such as yourself, I suppose, but people don’t trust the food no more, now that she’s in charge. I don’t blame ‘em.” “That’s just awful!” Mel said again, her voice sad and stressed. “Ain’t it, Frank?” Frank had stayed quiet as Mel and Mick spoke. “Sure is,” he said, but he looked distracted. He seemed to be looking at the ocean, even though the Shack was mostly in the way between his eyes and the waters. The three of them were silent for a while. Mel stared at the place. Then Frank said, “Well, it can’t hurt too much to eat here anyways, can it?” “Well, Frank. I guess you can do whatever you want – but if I were you, I wouldn’t eat a damn thing that woman makes.” Mick gave a surrendering, but concerned look. “We’re not afraid of anybody but God; ain’t that right, Mel?” Melanie thought for a second, but then nodded. “’The Lord our God is with us wherever we go,’” she quoted from the Bible. “Let’s go eat, Frank.” “Suit yourselves,” said Mick, shaking his head ruefully but smiling, “suit yourselves.” Melanie and Frank waved goodbye to Mick, then walked into The Seymour Shack. From the outside, the Shack earned its name by its shabby-yet-welcoming quality. From the inside, it maintained this, albeit with some considerations, such as the bar and all the tables and chairs, which were made of wood to match the theme, but were laminated. There was something darker about it now, though, Melanie thought, something deep and depressing and startling, as if the Shack had been transported down to some place far under the ocean. But despite that overwhelming impression, she couldn’t pin down what it was that gave it. The Shack had only a handful of customers spread among the many empty tables, and they all picked at and ate their food as if they were asleep. Their lethargic, nonchalant movement added to the feeling of being underwater that Melanie sensed. A woman stood behind the bar, stiff-stanced yet fluid, as if she could melt at any moment . . . Ms. Stillwater was an odd-looking woman, giving an air of deformity that couldn’t be pinned to any specific feature – as if each of the features had been so deformed that it gave almost an air of normalcy if you didn’t know what a human being ought to look like. She had wet, slippery eyes with a faint red tint, that bulged out of her skull and gave the impression that she might burst into tears at any moment. Her skin had the same slimy appearance, but here and there, there seemed to be some sort of a scabby surface, but when you looked long enough (don’t be too rude as to stare), you noticed there weren’t any scabs or lesions at all. Her hair, gray despite what Melanie determined to be a young age by really straining her eyes to look at her, was propped up in a neat bun with thematically correct fishbones, and very few stray hairs poking out. Melanie almost shuddered: she understood why so many people so disliked her. She gave such an aura of repulsion that it was hard not to. The worst was her eyes, she thought: they looked at you as if staring deep into the sea, watching the funny little fish swim below in the darkness. Despite all this, there was a vague familiar recognition that Melanie could not shake when she looked upon this woman. Melanie was a good Christian woman, though, and she – barely – managed to refrain from passing judgment on this woman for her unfortunate deformities. “Hello,” said Ms. Stillwater once she took notice of Melanie and Frank. “What would you like?” “Uh, hello,” said Melanie with trepidation. She walked up with Frank to the bar as she said, “I’d like to talk to you actually. You’re Ms. Stillwater, yes?” Ms. Stillwater frowned. “Yes, I am. What should you want to talk to me about?” Melanie knew that Ms. Stillwater hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, and she knew that she likely hadn’t sounded it at all; but she still felt as though each word was spat out of her mouth like venom. “I’d like to talk to you about the previous owner of The Seymour Shack, my friend Margaret Seymour.” “Oh,” said Ms. Stillwater. No, Melanie told herself: she hadn’t said it as if she were disgusted, she just perhaps didn’t like to be asked about it. “Ms. Seymour is no longer with us,” she continued. “She was a friend of mine, and sold me the Shack before she disappeared. She killed herself, I think. I’m sure of it. Yes, she must have.” There was a strange tone underneath it, as if confirming the idea with herself. “Oh,” said Melanie. She wondered at how Ms. Stillwater said what she did. She said, ‘no longer with us’ as if it were true, undeniably, but she said, “she killed herself” as if she needed convincing of the fact. This was only the subconscious pondering of her reason, however, because at hearing the words she first wanted to cry, but knew she couldn’t, not in public, not in this damned dismal place. “Oh, sorry,” she said, “I never introduced myself. I’m Melanie Craft, and this is my husband, Frank.” Frank gave a little nod. He hadn’t been paying much attention; he looked as though he had been staring into the ocean again, even though they were now indoors. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Craft. Would you like something to eat?” “Do you still have the same menus?” Melanie looked around at the others in the restaurant briefly. They were moving, yes; but they gave an air of stillness, as if locked in time. “Why, yes. Ms. Seymour left me all of her recipes.” Ms. Stillwater retrieved one such menu, and offered it to Melanie. Melanie shook her head and refused. “I already know what I’d like, if it’s the same menu. We’d like to share a plate of calamari.” “Alright,” said Ms. Stillwater. “Sit wherever you’d like, I’ll prepare it for you.” Melanie and Frank went to a booth far away from the bar and kitchen. As they sat waiting for their food, Melanie thought how much she hated this woman. Ms. Stillwater spoke as if she were hiding deep under the ocean. Her voice did not match her lips, quite, and there was a low gurgling quality that Melanie just couldn’t be imagining. She made Melanie feel sick. “I hope you’re really hungry, Frank, I don’t think I’ll be eating much.” Frank chucked drily. “Scared?” “No, I’m just not very hungry anymore, is all. Would you be if you just found out one of your best friends had died – disappeared?” She spoke low, quietly. Frank shrugged. “It’s alright, honey, I’m pretty hungry and you know how quickly I eat up that calamari.” He smiled at her reassuringly. She tried to smile back. Eventually Ms. Stillwater came back with the calamari. Melanie realized she’d been holding her breath by the way she let out a breathy “Thank you” for Ms. Stillwater. Ms. Stillwater curtsied in her navy blue skirt with strange designs, and walked back to her place behind the bar. All the customers that were present at Melanie’s entrance were still eating. True to her guess, Melanie ate little. Frank ended up eating most of the plate ravenously. It didn’t taste any different from Marge’s, Melanie supposed, but there was some difference in flavor just in the fact that she knew the creature who had made it for her. After Frank had finished eating, Melanie made haste to pay the bill and leave the Shack. Every one of the customers still sat, moving timelessly in their seats. ~~~~~ To shake off the oppressive gloom of what Melanie thought to be the taxidermied corpse of The Seymour Shack, she and Frank took a long walk around the boardwalk. They rode the Ferris wheel, watched the odd performers do their tricks, and just strolled casually under the afternoon sun. They ate nothing the rest of the day on account of an odd turning feeling of the stomach, as if in a slow cycle through a washing machine. Melanie suggested it was a residual effect of their stay at the Shack, and while Frank conceded that he felt it, too, he said to stop talking about that damn place. “Might be something in the air, about that spill.” He shrugged. “Sure as hell ain’t that place. That Ms. Stillwater ain’t the devil, Mel.” Melanie pursed her lips, to hide both her uneasiness about Ms. Stillwater, and her hidden fear of Frank; she resigned herself never to mention it again, and to let the blue sky wash away the memory. But even still, the discomfort remained, even with the memory suppressed. After a long afternoon on the boardwalk, they finally decided to retreat to their motel room to rest their tired legs. The turning feeling lingered in Melanie’s gut, though she no longer remembered, or cared to remember, quite why. She discovered it as if it had not bothered her at all until now. As she sat on the edge of the old, creaky motel bed, she said, “You don’t think I’m sick, do you, Frank?” “Nah, Mel. I think you’re just tired.” He looked at the digital clock’s red numbers on the nightstand: only 7:30 in the evening. “Tell ya the truth, I’m a bit worn out myself. Say we hit the hay?” “Sure,” she said, tiredly. They drew the curtains, changed into their nightclothes, turned out the lights, and crawled into bed. Sleep pulled at Melanie’s eyelids, and she acquiesced to the weight. ~~~~~ In the slow, distant way that one remembers what has been said around them as they lie in halfsleep, Melanie heard voices. She could make out three, but not the precise words being spoken. She heard Frank’s voice (maybe he was just snoring out half-words), but she also heard Marge’s voice, and a voice she was loathe ever to hear the sloppy, guttural tones of again: Ms. Stillwater. She listened with the detached curiosity she’d always imagined that dwellers of Heaven might wear on their perfect faces while listening to the quarrels and musings of those they’d left behind. She thought, suddenly, that this reminded her of listening to a foreign tourist speaking their native language to a traveling partner of theirs. Then she realized why: among the mumbling and growling, there seemed to be many repeated sounds she couldn’t make out as English, or of this Earth at all. The tone of their voice seemed urgent, demanding, and for a terrible moment, she thought they were speaking that strange language at her. Then she calmed herself, knowing that they should know she could not understand. She listened to them, without moving an inch, for what seemed like aeons. She thought perhaps if she listened long and hard enough, maybe she could pick up the tongue. She almost dared herself to try to speak, but she was too afraid. These sound sounded inhuman, disturbingly alien; she doubted such tones could possibly be replicated by the human tongue or larynx. There was also a background of voices, hushed, muffled, as if heard from underwater. The brief snatches of something that even resembled coherency was the same garbled language as her husband, friend, and … that monstrous woman, spoke. Though she did not understand what they were saying, she understood, in the inexplicable manner of dreaming, that they spoke about her. She finally gathered courage enough to open her eyes. She was lying in her bed, in the motel room – but the walls, floor, and ceiling had been replaced by a vast darkness, freckled here and there with sinister stars that whispered and winked amongst themselves. The voices of Frank, Marge, and Ms. Stillwater had gone, and Frank did not lie next to Melanie anymore. The only objects left in the room not turned to black and spark were the bed, and the bathroom door. Somehow, Melanie knew that the floor would hold her despite its absence; she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood next to it, spurred to action by a terrified curiosity, some dark hand pulling her mind along. The bed disappeared after she rose from it, and all that was left to walk towards was the bathroom door. Her legs shuffled over the void like two leaden weights being pushed and pulled by gears, levers, pulleys, as if she were nothing more than a mind bound to an automaton preprogrammed to a specific course. The door, upon her reaching out to it, melted and writhed, her hand fazing through it; she felt the sickening feeling when some ungodly, inexplicable phenomenon brings into question your sense of object permanence. The door wrapped its spectacular, phantasmal nothingness around her wrist, crawling and sucking and slithering up her arm, then her neck, absorbing her body and filling her mouth just as she broke through her terror-wrought paralysis enough to scream, then flowing up and boring deep into her eyes – She was in The Seymour Shack. The silent, eerily robotic customers still ate their meals slowly, like the dead. She for the first time noticed their faces: they had the same, abstract, objectless deformity and scabbiness to their skin, and the dull and evil eyes of Ms. Stillwater. Behind the counter stood Margaret Seymour. She smiled at Melanie, and offered her usual greeting: “Why hello there, ma’am. How’re you doin’, sweetheart?” The Shack still had the dismalness and foreboding that possessed it when Ms. Stillwater moved in, and this was partly the reason that the sight of Marge so jolted Melanie. The other reasons are included, but not limited to: the suddenness of her new surroundings after the horrific incident with the door; the way the customers seemed to be looking at her through the corner of their eyes; the way even Marge’s face looked twisted in a silent, constrained way; and the God-awful fishy, slimy undertone she swore she could hear in Marge’s voice, as if Ms. Stillwater were speaking quietly at the same time as Marge, but from Marge’s own throat. “Fine,” said Melanie. Questions swam before her mind like slippery fish in a river. She managed to catch a simple one. “What’s going on, Marge?” “Whaddya mean, Mel? What’s wrong?” Marge pulled a sympathetic face, but all these ghastly undertones of amphibiousness made it seem like a sinister glare. “Who’s Ms. Stillwater?” Melanie asked; her tongue did not seem her own. “She is the one whose kind will save you.” “What kind?” Here, Margaret’s face twisted, melted, dissipated, recondensed, rearranged, parted, fused, fornicated with such horrible malignant secrets as such should never be witnessed by sane eyes lest they lose their mind to unshakeable shivering lunacy. Her face morphed until it became the face of Ms. Stillwater. She then opened her mouth wider than even a snake, at an angle beyond three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, such a terrible non-Euclidean suggestion, and out from her mouth poured a creature of pure darkness and hate and murder and writhing. It could not be called a creature at all; It was a Thing, an impious Thing, a blasphemous Thing, the Thing that ate Heaven and regurgitated the Sea, that assimilated the light and converted it to the purest black as is imaginable by even the most inspired mind in all of the three-dimensional Universe. This Thing could contain no true shape; It was in Its pure form, beyond the comprehension of any mortal who could understand no more than three axes to their reality; It hinted of such a profound evil as can never be thought unfiltered lest the mind collapse in upon itself into a black hole. It then spoke words unpronounceable by any vocal cords of any known life on Earth. It was part bark, part croak, part shriek, part mumble, part sob, part echo, part plop, part slurp, part whisper. The syllables hit at Melanie’s heart like a bunch of razor blades, chopping up at her mind and fraying the ropes. Her bosom let loose a blood-curdling cry from the most terrifying vein of all: the realization of such horror in such plain terms as is naturally unnatural, the corruption of all her known moral standards and ethical codes, the attunement to a new key, to a new dimension of reality that defied all that she knew. “Let them save you, Mel,” It said. “Let them save you. Let them save you. Let them save you. Let them save you. Let them save—” Melanie awoke, not screaming, but sweating profusely, tears crying down her face, stricken with the most horrible horror as can be imparted by an nightmare. She felt stiff, pained, dirty, shivering. She just lay there for a while, staring at the darkness dancing on the ceiling and listening to the awfulness of Frank’s quiet breathing. A tickling in her throat was her warning. She quickly clambered from bed and ran half-crouched to the bathroom door, gripping the sides of the porcelain and releasing the contents of her stomach. All the calamari from her lunch left like blood from a gash. When she was done, she sat back against the wall, tears still streaming, her nose clogged with snot, her eyes puffy, her stomach turning, her heart pounding, her pores pouring, her mind sickening. Some fever, she thought: yes, it must be some awful fever-dream I just had. She rationalized away her terror as much as she could. She wondered why Frank hadn’t come to her aid instantly, as he usually would have. Then she further convinced herself of her theory, figuring that they must have gotten food poisoning of some kind from the awful food that awful woman gave them. She thought of maybe calling 911 – but she felt too sick at heart after the horrible nightmare, and too sick at stomach after the retching, to care to see anyone right now. She felt terribly detached from herself, and the world. She finally gathered the strength to rise on unsteady legs, and brace herself against the sink, staring into her miserable countenance in the mirror. And long into the looking-glass she watched, each frantic, anxious movement of her paranoid, frightened eyes seeming like an eternity in its minuteness. Finally she snapped out of her trance when out of the corner of her eye she spotted Frank, who had apparently been staring there, watching her for some time. “Hey, hon—” She was cut off by his face. It had that detestable aura that she’d come to associate with Ms. Stillwater, a faintly glowing malicious ugliness with no precise point. She almost began to speak, but she noticed that, just a split second before he grabbed her by the throat and began squeezing, that the volcano in his face had erupted; the magmatic violence was liberated. All that managed to escape her mouth before it was cut off from her larynx was a small yelp of meager magnitude. She reacted with no hesitation, beating at his arms, to no avail; she kicked, she squirmed, she twisted and turned: he would not let go. Thinking quickly, she grabbed the still-hot straightener from the sink and began lashing at his arms with it. They retreated, but his fury was undaunted, and even increased. He reached for her again, but, expecting it, she dodged it, quickly running around him to the main room. The lights were out; she could not see anything beyond what the bathroom illuminated; she found no weapons of self-defense. She bolted to the door, fumbled to undo the latch, and burst out into the warm night air of summer. Their room was on the second floor of the building. She sprinted to the stairwell, where a vending machine glowed ominously, and a fire alarm beckoned – but her paranoia won out, and her eyes turned to the red box where a fire ax slept behind glass. She almost banged on it to smash it – but reconsidered, imagining the noise and the neighbor’s awakenings. Frank would surely be soon upon her. She made haste to descend the stairs two at a time, almost tripping twice but making it safely down. She heard feet pounding the first flight of stairs above the one she had just left. She ran across the grassy courtyard to the stairwell opposite the one nearest her room, feeling as if she knew exactly what Frank would do: follow directly. She panted up the steps, wheezing but trying to quiet herself as much as possible: a thing Frank seemed unconcerned for. Her paces across the walkway where the various rooms latch like barnacles were quick and softened as she finally neared the open door to their room. She flew in, snatched a pillow from the bed, and flew out like a bat from a cave. Frank was not far behind on the walkway, so she bolted quickly to the fire alarm and its accompanying box. She pressed the pillow against the glass and began to bash her head into it, whereupon the glass eventually shattered after a few frantic hits and she threw the pillow at Frank who was now upon her, and she grabbed the axe, turned to her confused assailant and husband, and swung madly at him. Once she caught him in the side, but with the flat of the ax; he was knocked to the ground by the shocking blow. Melanie used this chance: she correctly positioned the handle in her sweating hands so that the edge would come down on Frank; and down she struck. The ax embedded in Frank’s skull with a thickening sound, part crunch, part slurp, part thud. Blood spurted in erratic, capricious gushes from around the blade, flowing down and matting his hair, covering his face, and spreading on the concrete. Something dark and sinister possessed Melanie to push her foot down on his neck and release the ax. Here such an awful dark thing poured out of the wound that Melanie went mad upon the sight. The Thing she had seen in her dream was real; It was before her eyes; but Its presence was a fraction of Its true form; It was a sparse collection of features, as if a poor attempt at rendering a complex song into a picture allowing one stroke of one color and intensity. It was the whole rotten Thing, and It drowned Melanie’s mind in madness; but Its magnitude was unjustified in Its unholiness, restricted by the three-dimension reality that was all Melanie’s mortal shell was allowed to know. It oozed out of the gaping wound, and It attacked Melanie in such the same way that the door from her dream had. As her mouth filled with that empty evil, she was laughing; and those shrill, haunting notes can only be created when its generator has lost all faith, hope, and belief in all that exists, and that such great evil lies beyond where the void and presence meet, and when this knowledge brings to the conclusion that they must kill themselves. ~~~~~ Melanie Craft was reported to have fled the scene of her heinous deed, by all the witnesses woken by the sickening noise of its completion, like a bat out of hell, her legs stretching forward and forward and touching new ground like the formless foot of the amoeba, pulling her along with some evil intent. There are no existing reports of what became of her from a reliable source. Some suggest she drowned herself; some that she somehow escaped; some that she became some sort of ghost, a legend to haunt the town forever. The only testimony of her known to exist after her running away comes from a drunken hobo who was positively intoxicated at the time of his witnessing it, and at the time of his telling the authorities. He had been lying under one of the protrusions of the boardwalk to the sea, his bottle clenched tightly in his hand and half buried in the sand. He claimed he saw the new owner of The Seymour Shack, someone the authorities identified to the old man as Ms. Stillwater, walking into the sea with the crazed killer. “I’m tellin’ ya, she were dere, and dey walked right inter da ocean, just like dat!” his testimony twanged. “Dey walked right in, I tell ya, ya gotsta believe me, I were drunk but I know what I seen! Dey looked calm and happy and excited like dey were hallelujah converts ‘bout to go ter church fer da furst time in deir new life in God! “But, da worst of all were da way dey spoke before dey went in! Dey spoke dis awful language I ain’t never heard befur, an’ it made me feel sick ter ma stomach! Oh, God, I kin almost rememba what dey saids, dat awful stuff. I cain’t sleep without hearin’ it over and over agin! Dey said, dey said, dey said … ‘Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!’” Edited by Wallace, Feb 23 2013, 10:43 AM.
	Join Scott Pilgrim Month! Character Code: Trolls: Vragula Nosratu - Guppas Sydriar - Cyndani Tortura Ancestors: *Countess Transylia Vane* - Messergia Tygruin - Aertra Mobillica


1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous)

Enjoy forums? Start your own community for free. Learn More · Register for Free
« Previous Topic · Act IV: Artist's Showcase Yard · Next Topic »