by J.N. Moore
To my dear Darla, if you are reading this, stay away from my research.
|To my beloved, Darla:|
I should have known. Were it not for the aeons spent worrying over the tragic whispers of death, young Dakota could have still walked those busy wintry streets she had for so long. Growing weary of the trivial volumes of decaying texts, I was curious and found a hidden fascination into the bewildering questions that have plagued and haunted my pension for the unknowable.
Various tomes - vast in their combined truths - encircled the desk at the local library as I poured my eyes over every letter of every word. None of it made sense; fitting. Why would it? These are, have and always will be forgotten in the long scheme of things in the universe. Why would one disappearance be vital to us humans? Some call it blasphemous, I called it research.
I sit before you now, scribing what could only be my last written work. It’s nothing unsettling; for you. Perhaps the incantations which exposed themselves to me via Dakota’s biographical notebook discerned everything about my future. Mercifully, I think and ridicule myself for not commenting and convincing myself to look away. Reading and re-reading at my own leisure isn’t a revelation. It’s an enlightening past-time, much as I write this to you, on this dreadful night - 16th of February, 1908 shall never escape these archaic pages.
Incomprehensible is the only way to express as I read each line of Dakota’s document. It devoured my eyes in its barbaric idioms of both awkward and foreign entities. I’ve only studied such acts of possession at the lectures I attended at Konicks University in 1905. Such subsequent exploration led me to venture forth into desolate and remote works of great authors and obituaries. It was a queer way of stirring my own passion for the abundant works of deceased people who were a patient to their own mind, that led me on this journey to discovering Dakota’s writings.
Hearing the masses outside and it feels like an eternity inside of my office on the second story of my run-down house. I cringe at the thought of what will happen next. Utter darkness can be seen creeping over the horizon. Covering the lights from the next city over in a black mist of subconscious pseudo-memories from past centuries. My eyes are antiquated, my face…perplexed. Momentary lapses of imagery waves over me as I hear - it - them getting closer.
I can only type right now in lieu of my house being a safe-haven for my daemonic thoughts of suicide whilst delving further and further into the Dakota thought process. It was similar. Primal knowledge from what was almost an indiscernible astral projection. Was it the young woman? A God from aeons past?
A waft of catatonia silenced me. I try typing this with every muscle in my body straining itself. It’s got a hold of me. I see something. The stupefying blackness has embraced my home. There’s a figure in front of me pulled out beyond a backdrop of rift in space. It was a blinding, pure white colour. This…galactic hominid figure emerges out of the void. It was almost certainly devoid of all kindness and rage; ambiguous in thought and form.
I must end this as I’ve been called. If you are reading this, then you should know that WE are safe.