“A figure, humanoid, with a bulbous body. A cylindrical face, approximately 10 cm in diameter, which after about a half a meter, caps off in a round bulb. The skin next to his eye impossibly rotates in circles, while the skin over his cheekbones rapidly twitches up and down. His mustache which appears to be an extension of his head hair comes down from the back of his head in the shape of a tentacle, and wraps around one side of his face over his upper lip. An image so ridiculous, it should be comical, yet she only feels fear. Not him again. He begins yelling about the art show. His face moves unnaturally, coated in a perfuse film of sweat.”
The book describes a girl living in a rural neighborhood, and horrible reoccurrence that besets her
“Night after night, it found her. Behind a cracked door, a next to a bookcase, behind a tree. Every time, she sensed it right when it was too late. A brief moment of horrifying anticipation, and there he was. Always ranting, always twitching. Some nights she didn’t actually see him, but would just hear him yelling nonsensically from some indeterminate nearby location, while she stay frozen in place, terrified that any tilt of her head, any shift in her field of vision, would reveal him just beyond the edge of the wall.”
She sought help from others, but no one else could see it. She could rely on the scarce and sporadic nights of sanctuary
“Few and far between she was sometimes able to escape for brief amount of time, and bring herself to another place. A field, riddle with scrub vegetation, and sporadic clumps of tress. In the field, is an old multi-storied house in a field, not very large, but rather tall. White paint chips off the walls and stairs, dust and dirt fill the many cracks and crevasses of the house. It’s quiet, which is nice. Isolated and calm. Though a persistent worry remains in the back of her head that she might see something here. He might be here. She walks down a spiral staircase, where an old four pained window looks out onto the surrounding outdoors. As much as the worry stays with her, the pale light coming through the window helps her focus on what’s in front of her instead of what could be hidden. Where is this? The sturdy staircase, white paint peeling off the wood. How old is this place? what was this place used for? Whatever the case, the old house appeared to be her only safe place.”
With no end in sight, the girl begun to sink into madness, always looking for the old house in the field
“But he always came back. Every night awaited the next encounter. No reprieve in sight. And, so she deteriorated. Her mind almost fully taken, and lost to the fear. Yet, she held on until one day making her way up the painted-chip stairs, into a dimly-lit upstairs bedroom. The bed was made, seemingly 100s of years ago. Dusty worn dolls adorn the neatly tucked pillows, which she would never want to actually touch. And on the at-one-point nicely-carved wooden end table sat an oil lantern, and a few unnerving looking porcelain figurines. And then she heard the rambling, coming from the open doorway, and down the hall, and with it, her heart shattered. Out in the hallway she could only see, four squares of light, from the window. But she knew what was there.
Awoken, in the pitch black of a moonless night, she screamed to drown out the babbling of the entity. With her last coherent thought, she decided tonight was the night. Soon, the darkness gave way to the light of the flames consuming the walls. And she never stopped screaming, even as she plummeted from the railing, unwilling to hear the incoherent ranting for even one second longer. The next day her neighbors found her half of her home burnt to ashes; her burnt corpse hanging from what was left of the banister.”
"There was one thing that no one ever found. One would have to jump up to the section of charred wooden stairs that still remain. Then make their way into the girls blacked room, seeming only supported by one or two lingering stilts. Over what was left of a bedside table. A porcelain figurine, hanging by a thread."
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