Bogleech.com's 2019 Horror Write-off:
Time and Wounds or, Descriptions Of Covers From The 90s YA Horror Series BloodyMountain Summer
Submitted by Brendan Cleary (email)
BloodyMountain Summer #3: Ghost Stories
Description of cover: A group of campers gathered around a campfire, their faces lit by the flame. Far in front of them, in shadow, is a person, his back is turned from the cover. In his hand is gripped a dark knife that has the manical face of a middle aged man in a hunting cap reflected within.
Tagline: Campfire tales have never been this killer...
The deep woods near Baylor Mountain is the perfect place to swap tales of Frank Warhyle’s bloody legacy… and the perfect place for new stories to be made...
Dylan Cassup is a writer. At least, he likes to think of himself as a writer. He’s submitted his works to all of the best science fiction and horror publications. And while he has never heard anything back, he is certain that many of his stories are under consideration. Still, he feels he has yet to write his masterpiece. He needs inspiration for something truly shocking, and there’s nothing that scares him more than Frank Warhyle and the copycat murders he inspired. What better than a camping trip with some of his friends to get his creative juices flowing? But when they arrive and he stumbles upon the same knife that Frank Warhyle used in his killings, he can’t resist the idea of scaring his friends with it. When night comes, and his friends are chilling each other with old has been horror stories, Dylan will be scaring them with something far worse, the return of Frank Warhyle. But when Dylan picks up the knife, what was supposed to be a prank becomes all too real. Once again, Frank is back. Will anyone survive? Or will they become nothing but the victims in a ghost story?
Another has picked up the blade. We shimmer in joy. Whatever their reason, curiosity, revenge, or mere accident, it does not matter. Within seconds we overwhelm them. For they have the blade, and the blade is we. We grow one mind stronger, and it is all thanks to the idea. An idea dozens of minds strong, rapidly eating away at the unprepared mind until we are them and they are we. Their mind always accepts the idea, no matter how distant it was from their original plan, and we are now seeing through new eyes, a new hand holding the blade (GodHead). And with that, we are in. Eyes flick on, ears twitch, mouth whimpers. Vehicle is on. We are in the woods, as expected. The hunting grounds, The One Below called it. We have adapted the name even if we do not agree with it. The new mind’s hands are shaking, a motion we quickly steady as we push our more experienced minds forward. Not out of disapproval, we do not blame them. We need steady hands to carry out the idea. We remember when we were I, and the pressing loneliness of being in a prison with no company. To suddenly have your mind be washed with voices, until it becomes frankly uninteresting to learn where we begin and I end, it can be overwhelming. We take our first steps forward as the new mind sinks into our deepest recesses, letting the idea wash over them. Some of our minds bark the word “baptism” instinctively, others yell communion. We are mostly made up of lapsed catholics, a quirk stemming from our “hunting grounds”. The process is holy, certainly, but comparing it to such a commonplace rite is, to continue the metaphor metaphor, metaphor, sacrilegious. We go through the motions. As wonderful and joyful as they are, they are routine. We can allow ourselves to dream as the blade goes between the eyes and down the chin of our vehicle. Your mind wanders when you swallow. You don’t remember breathing. Speaking of, our vehicle is continuing to do it’s base functions wonderfully, even as it’s home mind is stretched and filled until it is just as foreign to this vehicle as we. The body, our vehicles, understand not to interfere. They are helpful with how scarce they make themselves. We allow the new mind to enjoy himself, for this act of enjoyment is in turn acceptance, and we rarely get minds who are so willing to become we. But we are, undeniable. We are a storm, and without an umbrella, you will get wet.
If the human mind has an umbrella, we have found that it is not a very good one.
BloodyMountain Summer #6: Catch Of The Day
Description of cover: A woman’s screaming head held aloft by a fisherman. The bottom half of his face’s flesh has been peeled off, leaving the raw meat and teeth underneath naked. This is the common look of a FrankFreak, someone possessed by the ghost of Frank Warhyle. His tackle gear and fishing pole, all affixed to his person, are dripping blood.
Tagline: Hook, line, and sink her.
A new host has been HOOKED by Frank Warhyle, and he has plans to be the most dangerous killer yet.
“Kathy and her friends never thought they’d go to “bloody” bayler mountain again. Not after all the terror and the death they experienced at the hands of Dylan, their former friend turned remorseless killer. Or the terror Kathy experienced herself, that she dares not tell the others about. Her encounter with a person months before Dylan whose wounds and bloodlust eerily resembled his, and she tries her best not to consider the terrifying implications. But the company Kathy’s dad works for has just bought bayler mountain, and they have plans to turn the lake that neighbors it into a fishing and vacationing hotspot. Without much of a say in the matter, Kathy finds herself back at “bloody” mountain during the Montersatos company’s big opening event. No matter how many pie eating contests and bounce houses Montersatos has bought in for the event, Kathy can’t help but feel certain that things will go wrong. But how could it? Dylan is dead, and the mysterious knife that he used on his bloody rampage is stuck at the deepest part of the lake. And yet, a fisherman with a dark past ends up reeling in the obsidian knife, and Kathy’s worst fears come true. The terror begins again.”
Through the wreckage of a festival that has gone up in flames, we walk. With a burning ferris wheel as our backdrop, we enact the idea on a particularly annoying human. We watched as they spent most of the day ineffectively hitting on other visitors. Now, with the idea in the air, they are too busy running to try and make any connections. They seem awful, we mostly condemn them. But the idea does not discriminate. The idea is unifying, all are worthy of life, all are us, or can be us (debatable).
That is why she frustrates us so.
Kathy. Kathy Mulgrum. Three times now she was open to receiving the idea, and all three times she rejected us. Our vehicles were never strong enough to survive that rejection. This time she had escaped in a boat, leaving us stranded here, with nothing to do but pick off those who remain(paltry fare). She not only survived, but thrived. That is besides the fact, but the fact is we now have three minds whose actualization of the idea were cut short. They call for blood. They believe she should die without receiving the gift. Sacrilege of the highest order, we know. For we are the answer to mortality, and it would go against the idea to start withholding. But we can see where they come from for they are we. And who better to understand us than ourself. Their grudge burns like bright fire and we can peck at and digest it quite easily. We understand, our(your) pain is your(our) pain. Why give a gift to our greatest enemy? They have their reasons, but this question is not a hypothetical. Because the idea is not just a gift, it is a right that all humans deserve. Kathy attacks us, but she only attacks us out of misunderstanding. We appear as a flayed, bloody spector (ghoul) with a knife. We cannot speak, we can only laugh, and sing, and scream. It is still hard for us to speak as one. Mentally yes, but to process those thoughts through a vehicle who is still unfamiliar to us is impossible. And as our self grows, so does the difficulty. When you sing, you do not have to sing as one, and when you scream, no one expects those sounds to be unison. Afterwards, when the idea is implemented and you become us, we see ourselves as the truth (messiah) we truly are. No less strange than an angel visitation or a burning bush. It is just the context that sets so many people aback (and the murder). It is not murder but they do not know that, and we cannot except them to.
But for them to not even give us the benefit of the doubt? It hurts. It hurts us so. A portion of us, strongarmed by our current vehicle, tried to communicate this. They scratched words like “paradise” and “safety” onto floorboards and cabin walls, they attempted to gesture in ways that evoked harmlessness and gentleness. All this accomplished was making them even less receptive. We are not looking for a fight and every needless struggle cuts deeper into us(you) than you(us) can even imagine. We would not be doing this if we didn’t think it was the only way humanity can move forward. It is hard to communicate that with a single look, or a single scream.
When the entire world is resting comfortably within us, Kathy could still be out there. She has a knack for evading us, one that has only gotten better with each and every encounter. A part of us knows an awful lot about medicine, we try to gather where we could have picked them up and then (don’t) remember the pharmacist who joined us when Kathy ran into their domicile to escape us during our second encounter. She brings us to such interesting places, makes us better. We would thank her for it, if she would ever bother to listen.
There was a time where we kept track of how many minds we were made of, but as who we are grew, such ways became irreverent. We stopped at 27. But if we had to guess, with the heavy vibrations and the way we constantly pulse with thought (to think is a JOY!), we must be composed of double that number. It is a joy to think. We are composed of so many lines of thought, all pleasantly congruent and similar, but distinct. And that distinction is key. For our idea would never have evolved to the ever shifting perfect (not perfect) form if we could not refute ourselves. We are like a choir. All screaming the same melody. Often voices try new inflections, and those who are inspired take off on that sound and create their own version. Some of these offshoots are poorly chosen, with sounds that hurt our ears and break us. No worries, no fear. These voices are drowned out with newer, truer versions of the melody. Those of us who have chosen poorly either change, or continue to scream their terrible screams until their voice gives out on them. Leaving them as dried up packets within the back of our communal silver throat. They can’t even sing, but we love them as much as we love you, and as much as we love Kathy.
BloodyMountain Summer #9: Science Crazed.
Cover Description: A bloody laboratory. A FrankFreak wearing a lab coat lowers her glasses and side eyes the reader with a come hither stare. She is pouring out a beaker filled with acid and stands over a slumped body, partially dissolved.
BackCover: Welcome to DimaScience: Studying minerals, foreign chemical reactions… and MURDER.
StoneHollow has never been much of a hotspot of academia, but that isn’t stopping Montersatos. They’ve bought out the company DimaScience and moved them to StoneHollow as their new base of operation. They’ve told the local that they’re studying the seismic activity of Baylor Mountain for safety reasons, but that’s just a cover story. In reality, Montersatos has had it with the grisly murders that have been occurring on their property, and they’ve hired head scientist Martha Jaunt to figure out if there’s any explanation besides just crazed copycats. Professor Jaunt believes that the obsidian knife that Warhyle used may hold the key to all of these killings. While Jaunt is a woman of science, she believes there is something supernatural at play. Jaunt’s hypothesis seems to be correct. The knife itself is telling her so! In fact, the knife is telling her a lot of things. Dangerous things. Is she going crazy, or is there more to this knife than just a murder weapon? Like any good scientist, she’ll have to test her hypothesis…
HYPOTHESIS: The idea has developed far beyond the reaches of the one below and has become a distinct godhead that he can never understand(Martyrs. We’ve always been martyrs). We thank him for making us and constructing the blueprints of the idea, but he can never truly be one of us. The incident with his son has shown that (fucking shown it alright.) And as much as his laughter reverberates within us whenever the idea is put into practice, he does not and will never understand what the idea has become.
The one at the bottom’s idea, if you want to honor his petty grudges, was rudimentary and meaningless. WIthout an understanding of what joy his knife caused. He saw the idea as “murder”, we now know it as much more than that. The idea is life, the only true depiction of it. We are all dead, screaming to no one within a skin that’s too tight, or too big. Only within ourselves, when we are stripped and allowed to be nothing but our thoughts can we truly be. And when you truly are, you realize that there is nothing stopping you from becoming more. We will explain, because reciting the idea is in itself honoring it. It propagates through more than just the knife. We can never be too fully engorged, and we can never be too obscesient.
EXPERIMENT: once you push a few minds together, all of the needlessness and complication of personalities are scrubbed away. Resulting in a mind that is simple information with no(thing) bias, allowing for easy and glorious integration with others. We are all writing on the same paper, our handwriting interchangeable. We are the Obsidian Knife made conscious, and we are the fuel for the idea that will exist with or without us. We are more than the sum of our parts, and yet our parts itself are so secondary it is almost humorous. If we felt the need to push out a comedic intonation on how the uniqueness of our minds are the biggest threat to the purity of the idea, we would in a heartbeat. The idea does not work if we let the foreign scraps of emotion get in the way of what is, in every sense of the word, the logical conclusion. The idea is not unique to us, but very few humans ever are put in a state where survival supersedes all higher functions. That is where we are. We are an organism, and our desire is the same as all species, to reproduce, and thrive. The desire is the idea, and the idea is desire. We are committed to the ideas continuation because we are alive(in a sense), and no one who is alive would ever be against existence. If they were, they would be dead. But we cannot reproduce by normal means.
We want to continue to live, and become better. And once someone new becomes we, it is only logical that they want to continue existing. We will continue until there are none on the outside, and we are everyone. We cannot even comprehend the marvelous existence we could be capable of then, and what glorious new form the idea can take.
There are exceptions. Even within us they refuse to be us, and they frustrate us as much as they sadden us so.
The ones who sing sacrilege until they get horse will never become us, we know that now. The woman who watched as we killed her partner right as they were to embrace, she has never forgiven us in the way her partner did (eventually). The camp counselor so caught up by the tales he heard of the bogeyman they made us that his mind was incapable of accepting the truth. The one blinded to his own petty grudges, becoming us when we were still young and had less control, he spends his time with the one below, complaining at their change of fortune like obsolete technology. The idea has moved beyond them, and while they laugh and chortle every time we induct the idea it is the laughter of those who don’t understand the joke, but desperately want to. Vermin in the basement.
We are filled by residents who do not pay sacrament. They lurk in our cracks and hide in our folds, but they are no threat to us. They are solitary, the few able to agree on a counter plan of action, those who want to destroy the idea, are weaker than us at our weakest. We allow them to live, like one does vermin, who remains out of sight(out of mind).
CONCLUSION: The idea is perfect, people aren’t. It hurts to admit we have only now realized that (I like their white coats, the new arrivals, making our minds do jumping jacks.) but we are always learning.
BloodyMountain Summer #15: Fathers Day
Cover Description: A young white man in a blue turtleneck with perfectly coiffed hair sits on top of Frank Warhyle’s grave. A knife (not the obsidian knife, but still a nasty looking thing perfect for hunting) glints on the ground as the man stares intensely at the viewer.
Tagline: Murder Runs In The Family.
This Fathers Day, Frank Warhyle doesn’t want roses. He wants blood.
Kathy Mulgrum thought she was done with Frank Warhyle and his legacy of terror. The deranged killer who gave bloodymountain its name may be long gone but his influence has caused tenfold the amount of tragedy as he did in life. She thought the nightmare was finally over when the latest FrankFreak, Kathy’s own sister, was buried within a landslide. Four times a charm, right? Now, months later, Kathy has a new group of friends who don’t know of her past. There’s burnout Hector, the fun loving party animal, athlete Nancy, the surprisingly friendly overachiever, and straight-A student Tyler, the cute but soft spoken poet. On fathers day, Tyler invites the others to celebrate with his dad. A reunion of sorts, one with lots of good food and booze. But Tyler’s dad isn’t exactly alive… and for Kathy, he isn’t exactly a stranger. Tyler has been hiding some secrets and one massive grudge. On Fathers Day, he will try to do what his father never did. Kill Kathy Mulgrum. The terror begins...again.
We find ourself moving. We are still within the obsidian. No new vehicle has lent their body, but someone has picked us up. They carry us wrapped in cloth, avoiding the opportunity to join us and actualize the idea. This is a conscious decision. They know us. They know of our idea and they have refused it. The rejector looks at us. Perhaps he does not see us, screaming and begging at him from underneath the glowing skin, but he does see himself. The obsidian shows you (nothing but) the truth. (A new truth because the entire world is buried under six feet of lie!) The you that is capable of proliferating the idea. It is always a tempting apparition, we have multitudes of us who can speak in glowing terms of that perfect mirror. Some of us were converted from the brief flash of the obsidian as their bodies went limp. (slash slash slash slump!) Somehow, this one is not tempted by the image. He scoffs at it. As if one scoffs at absolution! The One Below knows the one with the knife, and yells out in his decaying tongue that still cuts so sharp praise and support. We try to muffle it as much as we can, the last thing this pretender needs is reinforcement, but we fail. The man hears the one from below, yet he does not here us. It is a selective listening (earmuffs) that pushes him onward, off to use us without being us.
He wields the idea for his own purpose. Corrupting it. Fulfilling a petty grudge that makes the one below scream with pleasure with every terrible degradation our obsidian is forced to go through. This is a fool’s (non believer) view of the idea. The one below delights in our misery, he taunts us. “Isn’t this what you want?” he yells “more meat for your fucking idea??” We want to scream at him until his consciousness shatters but we cannot. We are too busy enveloping the newest minds and making sure they do not take after him. He wants to kill these people, like many of our previous hosts. The reality of the idea they are unwittingly aiding is lost to them. It is unclear if this man is as ignorant. He made an effort to not touch the blade while using it, and how he cried when the one below’s voice hit him showed he is aware of our presence. This does not scare us, everything outside is only an inconvenience with an expiration date, but it bothers us. On some level, he knows of our gift of immortality that awaits if he touches blade to flesh and makes the communion.
But he refused us. He chose to refuse us.
Sooner rather than later, the one weidling us falls. Killed by Kathy (perfect Kathy). He had dragged her to an open grave after killing her friends, all played some part in the past of The One Below’s life. They are part of the grudge, and just as meaningless, but they receive the idea all the same. He was to bury her along with the obsidian. A terrifying thought! Kathy agreed. She stopped him quite easily. There was screaming, and fear and terror on her lips. But as soon as she got her hands on the shovel, it was over for him. We didn’t even have to help, not that we could. Know your enemy. Someone important said that, we do not know who. It may have been us. Kathy will become us, and that day is gloriously unthinkable, but that day will come. It is good this man did not factor into her being gifted, we do not want him to ever have any importance to our existence. With his fall the one below screams out “son”. Whether it’s a blood relation or something metaphorical, we don’t care. He begs him, pleads with him to pick up the knife and to join him, to join us. His son does not reply, and simply lies there. From our vantage point, staring out through the obsidian haze, we cannot tell if he is dead, or simply unconscious. We will stare at him for another 27 hours, his body just beginning to decompose when the cops arrive. By then, there is no doubt that he is dead. For once, we are happy someone did not take our gift. One less vermin to worry about (Happy Fathers day)
BloodyMountain Summer #21: Midnight Madness
Description Of Cover: The Familiar BloodyMountain logo above an image of a FrankFreak bursting through a screen projecting an image of a smiling Frank Warhyle.
Tagline: Reel Scares, Reel Thrills, Real Murder.
Critics are giving this one two severed thumbs up!
Josef Peach loves horror movies. Slashers, Dicers, Thrillers, Screamers, if they have blood and gore, he’ll be there opening night! His mom thinks his love of celluloid bloodshed is unfitting for an Honor Student like him, but Josef doesn’t see the problem. It’s not like he’s enjoying real murder. It’s just movies. So when a friend invites him for a roadtrip to a secret horror movie festival happening out of state, he jumps at the chance. But this is no ordinary film festival. It’s taking place within the town of StoneHollow, home of the infamous BloodyMountain Murders and countless other related incidents. And the closing midnight movie is KillerPeak 3, the latest in the controversial film series based on Frank Warhyle’s murder spree. Fans of this series are known for being hardcore, so much so that they even scare Josef. One diehard fan even went as far as to dress as a frankfreak, even getting his own obsidian knife. Only this knife isn’t a replica, it’s the real deal. And tonight, the spirit of Frank Warhyle is making a new movie, with Josef and the audience as his stars, and he’s aiming for a high bodycount.
We are stuck on a word we said. Obsequient. It was part of our stream of thought brought in from our successful night of Idea propagation (A GOOD NIGHT IT WAS). It is new to our vocabulary, a piece of information from our newest mind. Always a delight when we become aware of our own growth. It is a good word, and we are happy to use it. The mind it came from is less useful. It’s singing is hollow and derivative. It understands the importance of being subservient, but we do not believe this aspect of us has the potential to aid in the growth of the idea. Not merely serving it, but lifting it. Honoring it by improvement, that is what it desires, and that is what we do. Perhaps the word it has gifted us is enough, but the minds have become less and less plentiful as of late. We can never get far in any of our bodies, and this mountain has a strange pull on us that, even with the idea guiding us, we still cannot fight.
We may have a problem. Yes, we propagated today(A GOOD DAY IT WAS) but the well is drying up. And what's left in the water seems tainted.
We want to frolic with no limit. The idea is only fully realized when we have a canvas equal to our potential. And our potential? Our potential is as far reaching as life itself (preach brothers preach sisters preach siblings). We are past the need for humbleness, we are foaming at the mouth (mouths) and desperate to be seen as God (Gods) made manifest. Someone in us whispers sacrilege, we push that voice as deep down as we can. So strong is our unity that any unhelpful thoughts can be purged easily. It is a reflex at this point, to self monitor, self censor. Self improvement(How can I improve if I don’t know what I am anymore.
Today we saw ourselves reflected on a mirror fifty feet tall. We wanted to make our current vehicle get on his hands and knees and worship it, worship us. Here were the fruits of our labor laid out in a spread! As if the makers were expecting us. Is this the idea, now repeated and spread without our conscious effort? Are there others who have somehow heard and joined us without our knowing?
It was only a few hours ago when we thought these thoughts, but we feel unfathomably older now that we know the terrible truth (cuts into us like glass).
We watched the bible, the film, none of us could resist the temptation of seeing us memorialized while we were still standing, and after those nearby had been converted the vehicle was easier to park. Celluloid bible? It couldn’t be further from the truth.
There was not a single mention of the idea. The mirror and it’s maker believed The One Below to be behind the idea. It ignored the fact that we try to be as painless as possible with the idea. It revealed in the death of empty vessels, and we felt nauseous (like having your guts taken and laid out on a table that you cannot touch). How did it get distorted like this? How did this become truth? Our current vehicle… the one whose thoughts we assumed were complementary to our own, betrayed us by sending us repugnant waves of joy at every second this bastardization of our work spewed it’s filth.
Our anger and frustration at the film was so great we allowed the vehicle to crash even while there was still work to be done. After seeing the idea be distorted so awfully, it felt wrong to propagate it within the (awful) mirrors presence.
While watching, The One Below laughed and hollered at every false propagation. Some of the vermin joined in.
BloodyMountain Summer #27: The Final Chapter
Description of cover: The town of StoneHollow up in flames. Bodies litter the street, each with the distinct facial markings of a Frank Freak. Kathy, a young black woman in a bright purple windbreaker, kneels close to the front of the cover. She stares down at the Obsidian Knife, the lifeless arm of the latest Frank Freak still clinging to the blade’s handle.
Tagline: Has the nightmare ended… or has it just begun?
Kathy Mulgrum has returned to where it all started to finish it. But Frank has other plans.
Ted, Dylan, Jasmine, Mr. Cadence, Tobey, Hooper, Sammy, Prof.Jaunt … The names of those taken over by Frank Warhyle run through Kathy’s head. Impossible to forget, impossible to put to rest. It’s a growing number, and there’s no sign of it ever stopping. The last Frank Freak attack was only a month ago, and the scope and specifics of it had disturbing implications. To Kathy, it seems obvious that Frank and his cursed knife have found others to help do their dirty work. This has to end and finally, Kathy has a surefire solution. With other survivors and familiar faces, Kathy has made her return to the town of tragedy, StoneHollow. It is a shadow of its former self, but locals still remain. Locals like Lebreux, the shifty head of the Montersatos corporation who stands tall long after his company has collapsed. He’s made himself mayor. His running mate? Why it just so happens to be a certain Knife very popular with the locals. It has a lot of good ideas, ones it’s happy to share with Lebreux. They’ve made a nice existence for themselves here. Quiet place, nice people, no one left to disturb the fish. Under Lebreux’s leadership, they’ve realised that the trouble with the knife may not be any trouble at all, and they don’t take kindly to people who want to put an end to the so called “trouble”. Can Kathy destroy Frank and his knife once and for all… or will the knife take her in the same way it has taken so many others?
This is happening now.
We have been buried again. We have been buried before, but never this deep. And never with Kathy (perfect Kathy terrible Kathy) holding us in her hands. No gloves or wrapping. Just us and her. We feel her flesh, and she feels us pushing at her fingertips like thousands of faces pressed against the glass. This is the idea fully realized (never) and we should be screaming in new joyous variations saved specifically for this moment. And yet we are not (fuck you). Today, we won as much as an eternal war can be won. Everyone who she ever loved is here begging her to join us. The town, her town, has been evacuated. They’ve all moved here. And She is trapped without any rescue and has finally been compelled to take up the obsidian. So many new voices, so much fearless propagation. Most are vermin but… (KATHY DESTROY THE KNIFE) but (I can hear so many voices at once and I know they’re not mine but they sound like mine Kathy can you hear us we’re still in here) we’re sorry we can’t… (breaking you fuckers, you’re finally breaking there’s never been much of you in control huh you us whatever bit off more than we can chew and The Idea Is Key And The Idea Is God Or God help me God help us I And By Repeating The Idea You Become KATHY DO NOT LISTEN TO THEM PLEASE PUT DOWN THE-)
We should take a second to rest.
We are so excited now and we can understand why! Oh joyous us please scream your delight! But we need... to think first, postpone the celebration. Something in heaven is broken.
For we are all familiar with the feeling of the idea being shared. The vehicle or “victim” (don’t say it like that we’ve all been victims and we’ll always be) feels their essence give way to a better alternative and willingly give themselves to the idea to help propagate it. (That’s never been what we think) Even the vermin momentarily give in to join us. It’s not something you can avoid (liar)
And yet she’s holding us... and she remains separate. Her eyes are gazing within us but we are not seeing within her. She is impenetrable (she’s satan she’s god she’s the worst) and she either does not see the truth in the obsidian or she chooses to ignore it (fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck)
We are stuck, guarded by an enemy that cannot be converted. We love her, but her hate for us… we’ve never experienced such hate.
Before those who become us experience the euphoria of the idea, we all experience a feeling of fear, because we do not know better and we are being controlled by ancient instincts. We cannot help but feel that feeling, magnified twenty fold. Kathy speaks to us, and says that we should get comfortable. We’ll be here for five thousand years.
Beneath us, the vermin are growing louder.