"What I possess, seems far away to me, and what is gone becomes reality.
- Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
Well, I'll warn you now. This is a weird story as it's sort of true.
I suppose I should start with a brief explanation before anyone goes off doubting my sanity (though it would be reasonable to doubt.)
Wolfgang Shanks came to me one day as I was driving through the middle of nowhere in Loretto, Ontario on the way to her house...my Mothers house...She who must not be named.
She lives in a little bungalow on the Nottawasaga River and it was the perfect place to begin Wolf's story because it is literally in the middle of nowhere. Go ahead, Google it, you'll see what I mean. At the time, that was perfect for Wolf, because he had some questionable business to attend to and discretion was a requirement. So the story began, and he became so much more than just a character. When this is made obvious in this story, it's true. He's not just some fictional character I simply made up. He's a part of me that is not only significantly more eloquent and has a better vocabulary, but he also has a tendency to be somewhat evil. However, he does it in a kind of way that...well, never mind. Read the story, you'll see what I mean.
What I'm really trying to say, is that when we put our minds to something and allow ourselves to believe in the unbelievable...unbelievable things can happen.
It's amazing, scary and beautiful and powerful, and liberating and I could go on for days, but I won't. The thing is, that writing this beginning of his story sucked out my soul because, in a way, it made me face a reality I still don't want to face.
But it also reminded me that sometimes, the reality is only made better by the existence of imagination.
The reality I'm not ready to face I will share with you, dear reader, and for me to put it down on paper makes it a lot more real than I ever have. It's a secret I've held close for a really long time. But now that his story is finished and in the process of being published as I'm writing this now. It's a scary thing I've hidden from until I was ready. Well, I'm ready.
When I wrote this book, I wrote it after writing 'The Necromancer' and in order to write both of these novels, I had to walk down some very dark roads and do some very questionable things, alone in the dead of the night. By the light of many fires of white wood, I bled for this. I smelted and refined various metals for this. I put my life and potentially my sanity, on the line for this. I asked questions I'm not sure I was allowed to know the answers to. I collected so many books of forbidden knowledge and rituals and read them all until I was confident I understood them.
And then, once I was ready to walk into the woods alone on the deepest, darkest, deadest nights of the winter fearlessly; I performed them.
Step by step and committed to memory, I spoke the Latin words that made me question everything I once believed in. That being Science, and I learned that I was wrong.
There are things lurking in the darkness. There is truth to the history that history has done everything it could to hide. Shadow from the modern day. Swept under the rug.
Monsters, most certainly, are real.
The Ancient Ones, most certainly, have been awoken.
The scariest part of all of this? I don't remember writing ANY of this novel, or 'The Necromancer.'
It was him. I was just the host.
And I have the scars to prove it. Scars I can't explain.
Whatever the hell I did out there, it worked.
Not everything needs to be close enough to touch, sometimes having it close enough to feel is all you need.
Spem omnem demittite, qui huc intratis
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Close Enough To Touch
HorrorI thought that if I just killed him, the voices in my head would stop. I thought perhaps if I wrote him, put him into something, and then took his life he might just disappear. I was wrong I think, to some degree. By the end, killing him was the las...
