I know not what has happened to the village, nor have I spoken for it for the last sixty years. God forbid anyone finds it lest they wish themselves to go mad from the unspeakable horror that lies within that horrid place. Yet, I find myself writing my personal account of what happened.
The manor in which I have taken to call my abode was south of the city, nearing the farmlands and the wide grasslands many an artist would dare to paint.A city man would call the area rural or provincial, but it was far from ignorance. The little town called Breton was the only sign of civilisation and my manor, overlooking the town as it was perched on top of a hill, gave me a quite scenic and splendid view of the town and the sunrise.
Breton was quite dull compared to the city. The city had been founded in the early 1800's shortly after the natives were slaughtered by a travelling group of militia. The natives were canibalistic, as seen by the mounds of corpses around their village, yet what struck the milita was a black, crystalline obelisk in the center of the village, with a small wooden statue perched on top. The captain, horrified by the scene immediately ordered the slaughtering of the natives and the burning of the idol. It was shortly spotted by a group of nomads and established as a trading outpost in the late 20's.
I had first heard of Breton in the elite socialist circles in which I had been initiated in. Hushed whispers of daemonic cults and alien worship had piqued my interest over the bland discussion of the latest politician gossip. A chosen few I had gathered, and we made plans for finding the acclaimed village.
One could not help but notice a certain air of anxiety and fear lingering around the place. Such feelings of the bizare would be enough to poke at my appetite for the weird and strange.
