The Hole behind the Shed.

[Not Streetlight Fights]

Oh terror awaits those who venture into that wretched place; for even the feet of the Devil tread not where the ground opens. Surely it is a myth, yet as I draw nearer to that crevice (surrounded by the foliage of a grave) I feel my heart begin to pump slightly faster than before.
Before? Before I advanced, before I woke up, and before I moved to this terrible little town and settled down in this terrible little plantation.

I hear the negro women crying at night, lamenting that their husbands do not return; one at first; yet now all but one have vanished, and that one won't leave his shack. They pull me aside and cry in my ears "Master, please ya' have to fill that pit of Hell" and I push them away, content in my morning strolls.

An old friend of mine named Brevitz showed at my step and offered the wonders of tales for the luxury of my home; who was I to refuse such a generous gift? Brevitz was an explorer of lands (possibly of the last of the uncharted free world) and through his travels he had collected an impressive amount of information.

I was born with an ailment of the heart, and could not leave the country safely because of it; so I gladly accepted Brevitz's offer of story, if only to further my own fantasies. He was an unkempt man of large size and odorous wafts, he drank like a fish and farted loud enough to rattle the dogs at night. His large and bushy beard may have held insect life while he lay at the bottom of the rain forest floor, and his voice surely must have driven off even the kindest of whores. My servant boy did not care for him, and in all honesty neither did I, but he was my guest so I informed young Matthew that he was to treat Brevitz with respect.

Brevitz is dead now, and Matthew is missing. I hear the negro women chanting in their shacks, chanting the names of the Great Old Ones, calling forth the likes of Yig and the Dragon Prince. I know that their words are meaningless but I also know that something isn't right about that hole. The last time I had seen my servant boy he had been going behind that shed, babbling about Ly'Ketherguth and carrying a pail of a suspicious red liquid. I heard him scream something in another tongue, and then I heard nothing but the sound of his screams disappearing into the Earth.

As I step to the edge and peer down into it's dark chasm I wonder how long this hole has been here; surely it wasn't here when I moved to this plantation in 1923, I would have remembered such a thing, but if not than why do the markings around the edges look so damned old?
Large stones that a man couldn't move by himself adorned the barrier of the hole, almost thirty feet in diameter, each one bearing the sigil of the Elder Sign: the star bearing the flame.

A flash of vision struck me, memories of events that have happened far before the birth of my Lord and Savior filtered into my head. I saw beautiful scenery, sparkling waterfalls that stretched higher than the mind could conceive, lush and tropic flora surrounding the group of young men who stood in this majestic area near the cliff edge.
I could smell the ocean and feel the spray of the water on my face; when I realized that I was in the body of a very young man, clothed in simple garnishments and a very dark tanned color. The other young men around me smiled and laughed, speaking in a language I could not understand, yet when my mouth opened I spoke back in the same tongue.
I felt them grasp my hand and we all ran towards the cliff edge, leaping into the air wildly and looking below us into the water that seemed to be several miles underneath us. We fell an impossible distance, the amount of time it took to fall bordered on four minutes, we fell through a large chasm in the ground, yet the light of the high sun provided us with vision and as we neared our stop I witnessed the horror of what we were doing.
Lurking just below the surface of the water was a monstrosity so repulsive that I could not bring myself to look at it for long. Large enough to where the massive chasm (that was at least half a mile wide) seemed to be almost filled by it's mouth. It lay stationary, a large mass of flesh and teeth and eyes, eyes larger than my friends and I. It reached numbly at us with plastic-like masses of tendrils, and the stench that came off of it was like the death of a city. The water was clear and the last thing I saw in the vision was the smile of my Indian friend's face as the great jaws opened with a bellow and accepted us into it.

I tore myself out of my vision and stared into the chasm before me.
Perhaps it was my imagination, but the sound of a deep rumbling seemed to echo out of it. Upon closer inspection each of the large stones had the Elder Sign etched in fresh blood, all except for one which was decrepit and flaking. I scoured my brain, and with a dawning horror I realized what I must do; I went into the shed and sliced my hand upon the shovel, and with what came out I freshened the sigil. The roar rising from the pit was deafening, and with a smile on my face I knew that I had bested whatever beast lay down there, yet there was something else. For split second that image of that foul beast forced itself into my head, it wrapping it's tendrils around Matthew, choking the life out of him. I could feel coming up the chasm; it was breaking through the barrier that the ancient ones from beyond the sea had placed on it.
The chanting of the negro women became harmonic, almost angelic; their frenzied words spitting out of their mouths, lapsing from English to a tongue that had been dead for thousands of years. I remembered the face of the young Indian man in my vision.
Brevitz had been right, those long nights that we had spent together, all that time he had been right.
"For every ten, he sleeps for one-hundred thousand years, but it has to be ten, or else he breaks through and wreaks havoc on the world of men."

I did the math.
I took a run and threw myself into the pit, the wind blowing in my hair as I made my descent.  

[Xahmen]

You make me very angry, in a very good way.
Welcome to the guild.
Phenomenal writing, just make sure you keep it up.  

[Serenity Reed]

Oh, wow. I'm reminded of two things: Edgar Allen Poe and Claire Hack. It's okay if you've never heard of Claire Hack, considering she's nothing more than a novice like myself, but know that her writing is creepy and beautiful and just makes you want to read more. Well, I must congratulate you. I flippin' loved it. mrgreen Welcome to the guild.  

[d e s d e m o n o]

You are awesome and I love you. This is really... full of everything it wants to have. Hello.  

[KirbyVictorious]

Whhhhhhhhoooooaaaaaa.


You rock.

I need to hug you for that. It was awesome.

*hug*

WRITE MORE DAMMIT.

And welcome ><  

[Not Streetlight Fights]

Thank you all for your kind words.
Who here writes horror?  

[Serenity Reed]

I write gore! It's not really horror, but I've been trying! I've not delved that deeply into the genre, though I've found my stuff comes across like that to some people...

I envy your ability. *sighs*  

[KirbyVictorious]

Ah, Ser. If gore counted as horror, I'd be way up there. but sadly, it does not.  

[Serenity Reed]

Gore, I think, is much more fun, if it has soft undertones of mystery/horror/etc..  

[Gomenroia]

I've tried, and failed miserably, to write horror. That was pretty cool though... ^^ Heyla and welcome.  

[Tak-Jak]

The master of horror in this place is probably Zahmen.
You should look at some of his older pieces though.  

[Not Streetlight Fights]

His stuff isn't very good.
Over-used plots with stereotypical characters, all told in a pathetic first person that doesn't provide nearly enough detail.  

[Xahmen]

emo
Well...
Well, Lovecraft is over-rated.

In all actuality you're the first person to say anything negative about my stuff, and that actually makes me like you more.  

[KirbyVictorious]

rofl  

[Serenity Reed]

gonk