You reach the record player just as the first wave of insects begins emerging from the wall. There are so many of the damn things so close together that you can’t see the legs of one because it’s blocked by the body of another. Given this fact, and the fact that the sparse light in the room does not reflect well from their inky carapaces, you get the general impression of a river of oil spreading out over the library floor.
It swarms over books and under tables, skittering ever closer and making the most awful racket. Panicked, you frantically stand in front of the record player in exactly the same way as Benziah did and turn the crank four times (just as Benziah did).
As the crank clicks for the fourth time, everything slows down. The inky black stain seems to be moving at a crawl, and eventually stops. The record player begins to thunder at you. Seeming at once to be static and speech, a disgusting infernal voice spews forth from the speaker. The voice, a grotesque mockery of speech and language, is at the same time alien and familiar. Although you don’t understand the words, you definitely understand the intent. You feel a Presence in the room for a brief moment — something so vile and hateful that it almost physically pains you to be near. Your sanity quakes and wavers, but somehow manages to hold against the onslaught of sheer madness this presence represents. You close your eyes and wait for it to stop.
And, all of a sudden, it does.
You hear a tinkling sound that sounds kind of like a music box, only much louder. Nearby, a voice is droning on… something about “Lucia, my love” and “in the arms of another man.” You don’t really catch it all, since you’re still reeling from the evil you experienced moments before.
You open your eyes and find yourself to be on a stage looking out at a vast audience hall shrouded in darkness. A light shining directly in your eyes prohibits you from making out anything out past the first two rows (which are empty).
The speaking man to your left (an elderly gentleman who, inexplicably, is dressed as a medieval knight complete with open-faced helmet — he also has a drawn sword) ends his diatribe and looks at you expectantly. On the ground in between the two of you, lies another similar looking sword.
You feel something prod you in the ribs from behind and you turn to see a scruffy-looking man in a pink dress. He is wearing a fairly shoddy blond wig (which is only partly covering his unkempt black hair). In a sleepy, droning voice he says “Pssst. It’s your line!”
The visit from the horrible being from another dimension incurred some relatively stiff sanity damage. You may, in the near future, experience some fallout from said damage.
Just so you know 😉
Updates are on Monday and Thursday afternoons. You must be registered to vote in the polls.