Quiet, a short story.
The quiet things hiding in curious shadows have spoken to me again. I ponder their whispers as though they hold keys to forgotten realms. They crawl across my ceiling, seeking shelter from the light of morning. They keep me company, while i seek shelter from my own mourning.
Watching them squirm brings me little comfort, but it is familiar. It would seem that even those things that are horrible can be home. Of the twisting portals they use to come and go, we speak naught. Even the things staring back through them are unmentioned.
Im curious to know from where they come, but their voice wont support the name. They have taken to calling it The Next, and i have done just the same. They say it is terribly bleak, and quite hostile, and I say the same of our realm. My jokes never elicit their laughter, so ive stopped telling them. Im so relieved.
They keep telling me they have to leave soon. That coming was a mistake. I tell them they are welcome to stay, that they may share my mind. They insist, though, and already their numbers are dwindling. My last encounter was quite curious, however, and my reason for writing.
I asked, purely to spark conversation mind, what was to become of them. The hideous creature of whose kind id grown so fond stared for some time. Finally, as though struggling against the enormous weight of its words, it spoke. "We are to return", it said, "but in another time, another place, another victim."
They are gone now, having left behind that ominous implication. To what have i fallen victim to? Is it what has been rendered or what is yet to come? Why do they not simply come back through the portals? They left them everywhere! No one is answering me! No one is listening! All they do it stare! They wont stop staring at me!