Cedar Sanderson is doing N'inktober, so I'm going to follow along and do what I've been trained to do by the Raconteur Press Postcard books: come up with a story to match her visual prompts. I can't guarantee that I'll have a complete story for every image, but I'm going to at least try to come up with a scene, a start, or an idea!
Angelic Catfish
My electric torch flickers, shedding the last of its light to illuminate this cold void beneath the earth that shall be my tomb. I am left with nothing but a cold consolation: I have brought my father’s journal with me, so no other will be enticed by his words and share my fate.
I nearly escaped. After the reading of my father’s will, my siblings decided to visit the dioceses office to converse with the bishop about some small matter related to the funeral. I was raised in the Church, of course. Upon my eighteenth birthday, though, I determined to never darken the door of a house of worship again.
Ironic, I know, given my current circumstances.
Having left the teachings of that institution, I disdained the idea of enduring a discussion with a so-called spiritual leader. Rather than impose my own distaste upon my brethren, I decided instead to journey on to my father’s estate, assuring them that I would await their arrival so we could survey and then discuss the disposition of his worldly goods.
It was wandering the empty halls of his ancient home that I felt an indescribable urge. No - not an urge; a compulsion. Twice I passed the heavy doors that would open to his study, wide enough to accommodate him in his wheelchair. Twice, I reached out to enter. Twice I dissuaded myself, reasoning that while it was one thing to wander the halls and contemplate the memories of the man who had fathered us all, it was another thing entirely to skulk uninvited into his most personal of spaces.
Twice, I resisted.
It was not in me to do so on my third pass down the halls.
Overwhelmed by uncharacteristic curiosity, I pushed open the great doors. They swung open easily and silently. It appeared to me almost as if they were graciously extending an invitation to venture past and explore the space beyond.
Explore.
With that thought, my fate was sealed. My father had been a great explorer in his youth. After his near-fatal injury during his final expedition, he had become a renowned academic author and university lecturer. How could I, his son, resist the call to step forth and in some small way emulate the one who had raised me?
That is how I found myself in the study, sorting through my father’s possessions. A stack of books here. A file of papers left on the desk. I likely would have perused the remnants of his life briefly and then left in peace, were it not for a trick of the late afternoon light that illuminated a sideboard drawer that was not quite closed.
My father was a not a neat man, by any stretch of the imagination; but he did have a certain peccadillo in that he insisted that doors, windows, and the like be neatly closed. I can still recall his booming voice, addressing me each evening as I returned from school. “Thaddeus! Commit yourself, boy! Make your entrance and close that door!”
That may sound harsh, but it was not. My father was a demanding man, true, but a good man, and he loved each of us in his own way. So I told myself that it was in honor of his memory that I moved to shut the drawer.
Or, rather, to try to shut the drawer. Upon attempting to do so, I found its motion impeded by an object within. Determined to correct the imperfection, I attempted to open the drawer, only to find it stuck. What a nuisance! Frustrated and flushed with anger at the impertinence of this inanimate object, I braced myself and yanked. The drawer resisted, then moved suddenly, the violence of my motion causing the drawer to spring entirely from the sideboard, spilling its contents on the ground.
I recall seeing a journal - the journal - spilling forth from the drawer. Bound in dark leather, its creamy white pages splayed as if it was attempting to take flight and escape. The images on those pages still flash and flutter in my memory when I close my eyes. Eyes and wings, scales and claws, tendrils and tentacles adorning creatures from eldritch flights of fancy that had no place in our world.
I have only the vaguest memory of what followed. I recall staring, studying the journal with unblinking eyes. I have no memory, nor comprehension of what I read that evening. In the days to follow, I would examine the journal intently, following my father’s careful script as he detailed his last expedition into the heights of the High Atlas range.
I came to my senses when I heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway, shaking my head, wondering where the time had gone. The barest hint of light was still showing through the high windows.
Still, that dim and fading light seemed perfect for illuminating the last, hurried sketch in the book. It is burned into my mind. My father’s hand had obviously been shaking when he made it; though whether trembling from excitement or fear, I cannot say. Knowing him, it was a combination of the two, equally mixed. The lines of the illustration leapt off the page in the dusky light. Strange angles, odd statues, and disturbing shadows spun out the hint another world, a place at once both disturbing and enticing.
Explore.
In that moment, in a flash of clarity, I knew what I would do. Not just follow in my father’s footsteps, but finish the work that he had so obviously left uncompleted. What was this strange place he had discovered, deep in the heart of the High Atlas? How terribly frustrating it must have been for him, to know that he could never return!
I slipped the journal into my pocket as my siblings entered the house. The remainder of the evening was a blur. I recall greeting them, but the disposition of my father’s inheritance did not concern me any longer. I had what I desired: his journal. My brothers and sister could console themselves with what other meager treasures his estate might offer.
In the weeks an month to come, I came to regret that decision. My father’s directions in the journal were surprisingly clear. To mount an expedition such as he had, though, would have cost a fortune that I no longer had access to. I ended up selling all that I owned, piece by piece, until I was able to raise the funds needed to travel to Marrakesh and beyond.
I will not bore you with the details of the journey. They are of no importance.
What you must know, if you are reading these words, is this: I was able to follow in my father’s footsteps. In the far reaches of the High Atlas, I found the vale he last visited. Located the cave entrance he identified from ancient records. Identified the antediluvian nature of the architecture within. Then - after a brief moment of hesitation - I ignited my electric torch and ventured into the darkness. Alone.
The things that I saw along those twisting passages! I would describe them to you, if I could. Mortal words fail me. I should have no need, though. You are here, are you not? You have come this far. There is no way that you could have arrived here and yet somehow avoided experiencing what I did as I wandered into the depth below the mountains. The strange idols, with their claws and frills. I have no doubt that like me, you considered them fanciful gargoyles. Strange unearthly wardens; angels of some base sort. The kind of spiritual figures that might have been imagined by whatever predecessors of Man might have roamed the earth in ages past.
That is what I thought.
I was wrong.
I can hear them in the darkness. Their sibilant whispers filter downward to whatever dark gods they serve here in this ancient temple. I was able to fend off their first attack by generous use of my electric light and my trusty revolver. Despite my best efforts, they still got through to me and damaged my legs. I am wounded; not mortally, but severely enough that I cannot walk.
Injuries that are suspiciously reminiscent of the ones that crippled my father.
I must conclude this warning. I have only so much light. My torch is flickering more steadily now. When it dies, the winged ones will come for me.
I have one shell left for my revolver. Atheist that I am, even here in this foul temple to long forgotten deities, I shall pray to God for the first time in decades. I shall ask him to both give me the strength to use my weapon effectively, and forgiveness for using it the way I intend.
What you must know, if you are reading these words, is this:
Run.