Bottles of Red Murk
The Mad Poet came crashing awake, ears ringing like bells and eyes unfocused. He was weak, his breath was short, and his mind was a shroud of fog.
“Albey,” said an impatient voice from impossibly far away. “You musn’t keep waking up, you wretched thing. The procedure is almost complete.”
The green glow from earlier was gone, now a dark and violent carmine. Albey looked about the lair and saw every bottle was full of the crimson stuff, though what stuff it was he did not know.
Or mayhap he did not want to know, though he had a pretty solid idea.
“Gobon,” he groaned, struggling to rise to his feet. “I will end you, fiend… I… I will…”
Albey tried to take a step forward but fell to his hands and knees. There was a bottle within arm’s reach and he struck it with his fist, shattering it to shards which did not scatter about the rooty floor but faded into thin wisps of smoke. The red liquid it contained jumped to Albey’s closed fist and slithered between his fingers. Some strength returned to him then, and when Albey opened his hand there was nothing to be seen but the lines in his palm.
“Well that won’t do,” Gobon said, his voice coming closer. “No, that won’t do at all, now will it?”
“You’re a fool, Gobon… you’re a sickness, a plague to this land…”
Albey reached out and smashed six more bottles which sprouted from the rooty ground around him. The red liquid flowed to him and bloomed vitality within his bones and blood. He stood then and his vision cleared; Gobon was just before him, within striking distance.
“…and I shall provide the cure.”
Albey swung a fist into the side of Gobon’s head. He felt a crack as his knuckles pulverized Gobon’s skull, saw a great purple bruise rise and then sink back beneath the thin surface of his pale skin.
“What in–” Albey gasped, then sprung backwards on his toes. “What are you, vile daemon?!”
“I am no fool, you pathetic squirming insect,” snarled Gobon as he rose his right hand before him. “I am clever, clever enough to know the wheel of ka spins upon a broken axle.”
“Speak not to me of ka, you–”
“Silence!” Gobon screamed as thunder boomed overhead. The lair began to rumble, the bottles of red murk began to froth. “You are a bug and you shall be squashed, Poet, but not by my hand. Not now.”
The carmine liquid within the ephemeral bottles began to spill out onto the floor, began to grow, to take form into hulking creatures, massive muscular things stood on bipedal legs. Albey backed further towards the wall but was pushed back into the center of the lair. They were all around him then, the shape of ‘mans but larger, hairier, with emptiness in their dark eyes and fear burning in their hollow hearts like bottomless black ink in a lantern.
“You shall forget all you’ve seen since the smoke first hit your lungs; you shall awaken in an ashy pit, weak and starved of purpose; you shall seek the clearing at the end of the path, but never shall you find it.
“You shall be damned, Albey the Poet; only pain and Death shall find you.”
A terrible black flame the color of coal and slick like oil spurted forth from Gobon’s fingers as the creatures converged on Albey. Soon the lights all went out; he awoke dazed and confused in the firepit of the clearing in the center of the rivered isle as the waning crescent moon peaked in the sky. Then, Albey fell immediately into slumber, and did not wake ‘til high noon of the next day, Sunday, a day of Life.
This has been the last subchapter of the fourth chapter of The Face of Fear, a novel about bigfoot written by the writer in Untitled Bigfoot Project. Here is everything you need to know about it:
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
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If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~