Collection Of Scary Stories

A Quark in Seas of Black Infinity

I.
When I dream of a void, I dream of an unending chasm. White shadows whisper, and they eat into my mind. I hear the smells of sacrificial flesh, and see the tastes of foreign meat. But these are only nightmares.

I loathe my place in life. I want to escape, but I cannot. The city never seems to let me leave. At times, it nearly seems intentional- when I try to leave or have an out of town conference, I am always derailed or deferred. To be frank, I have never left the city in my entire life. Though I know that it is surely by chance or lack of ambition, it nonetheless seems entirely wrong. Does the city have a sentience? Logically, I know that is impossible, but these paranoias chill me nonetheless. But I want to leave! I need to leave, or I will die here. If I have decades left of life here, will that provide the opportunity I need? I think not.

I am too listless for violence. Yet- as with the undefinable, uncaptuarable disquiet, it is there all the same. This city should burn. Sometimes, when I am not dreaming of my terrors, I dream of the city burning. I hear the screams, and I am glad. But these dreams are only that, and I am oppressed by the isolating reality.

I believe that this city gives me these nightmares. It pulls me in and scars me. It will never let me go. I may try to fight, but it will always stop me. It cannot be simple coincidence... But it must be. I know it, but what can I do to convince myself? I believe I will never conquer it. Why? Why?

Arkham is a cultish city. I must admit that I do not know the full details. As with far too much, the exact nature of the supposed supernatural is the barest haze seen from the far corner of the eye. There are certain gods worshipped- but not gods of known history. Nothing is certain here- Dirty, grubby deals- often gaudy architecture dating back to the seventeenth century- the poverty stricken, inbred homeless- though better to call them inmates in this place- and the hawkish, crazed freaks who will insist- sometimes calmly, sometimes psychotically- insist on trumpeting the second coming of cryptic abominations. Sometimes, they belong to the malformed, incestuous homeless- and yet, they often come from the starched, clean pressed and diamond watch bearing Bostonian crowd- though nearly always bearing the elephantine ears and flat noses of the inbred.

Miskatonic is a still more cultish university. Ivy League, yes, but a new age, drug addled prestige. There is not a week without new flyers proclaiming new clubs and unions- and students attempting to sneak maudlin, supernatural projects past professors. And the professors often play along, allowing the most fanciful studies to pass as scientific assignments. Students often reach the wildest conclusions when presenting orations pertaining to the university's many mangled expeditions- There is not a week when lengthy narrations on "The lost city discovered in the Antarctic," or "The true conspiracy behind the bombing of Devil's Reef. This bombing was primarily the cause of the past eighty seven years." I am extensively thankful that my career does not involve student contact.

Yes- the entirety of New England seems to be a wasteland of cultish fanaticism. A shame that insane asylums have seen their lives passed! And it seems to be contagious- for the howlings of the wind in the dank streets seems to have truly become the fearsome commands of otherworldly entities- yes, though I have long fought these hysterical psychoses, and though I know the rationality of science abides with me, I have begun to dream of these "Outer Forces." I feel called, in the deathless night, when nightmares are indistinguishable from true night- to fantastic deities. The city's seedy exterior seems to fall away, and I see not the dull tunnels leading to filthy subways, but rather a hub of exultant knowledge, of insects which believe they are crucial servants in the thrall of masters of unknowable pall. And then I see myself among their ranks, among the least dispensable...

And then a terrible revulsion overcomes me, and I see my life ebbing- and I see that I am nothing at all, not even the barest stain upon the fabric of reality. And reality is not a solid presence- no, rather a bubbling, twisting, roiling fabric, outlining terrible secrets beneath which are a deadly insanity- And I do not wake screaming. No, I wake paralyzed, frozen, and I feel great weight upon my chest- a throbbing, thumping agony drilling ever deeper into my brain. And in these moments I nearly pray to a nonexistent god, but cannot bring myself to do so- for the things drilling into my brain are infinitely more powerful than any god conceived by humanity. The world dissolves, and I try to scream- try, try, fight, though I have not the will- and when dawn creeps through the city, I am not comforted.