by J.N. Moore
A once delightful site becomes the dreadful decay of local residents.
|It was a bizarre and disturbing sensation, breaching the myriad of undoubtedly vague half-sentient brilliance. Vivid and mysterious intermittent gusts of pre-Cambrian mountains stood in awe of previous topographical dissonance. There was a metamorphic sense of provocation surrounding the great church atop that hill near Elkhart. A most opalescent void granted no great diameter of mechanical shutter. Considerably, unusual and scathing undertones whispered an observation of great magnificence; sans modern specimens. How many lives have dissolved in the vast caverns below remain to be weathered by time immemorial. Spires fashioned from fragments of archaic stone - granite circa 500 million years ago - in a dark gray hue. Entire sciences devoted to delving into this unilaterally improbable feat of architecture remains an unfathomable probability.|
Scholars and amateurs alike have questioned whether or not the church - Archaean Alabast Church - was the culprit for a rash of apparent vacancies happening within the households of seemingly healthy families. Since its induction into the town half a century ago, certain faculties contained within the local residents heard their death knell coming swift. Queer in jest and rather peculiar, this did nothing to quell the vicious spread of an upper respiratory plague. Dozens of foremen passed on as a result of erecting the labyrinthine paradox formerly known as Tertiary Hill; currently a base upon which Archaean Alabast Church resides. It is unknown, however, about the blight which has continued to stimulate speculation near - and far - Elkhart and its surrounding towns of Goshen and Mishkatoshen.
Murky, yet marvelous, winds gently wept past Jon Timblae as he surpassed any and all involvement of coalesced intrigue while merely sighting the old church. How theological and repressed it may have seemed, Mr. Timblae left no stone unturned as he clinched onto the hindsight thought of strenuous barriers. The vertical man stood, towering above his peers in a gasoline stenched brown-black leather duster; a furled and boring bowler hat covered his medium length, windswept, dirty blonde hair. No continuous feature about him leaked out into the world as a status of significance. His mere, silent hand gestures told tales of decades of subconscious alarm. How pretentious it must’ve been to behold a fallacy of a life, covered in headlines and given breath by the very untimely death of stardom.
Mr. Timblae continued his walk on the early afternoon of the 19th of April, 1932; brisk and fog-blanketed, its grip held with great force over the town of Elkhart. He had wandered southbound on the partially paved cobblestone street, Gedney Avenue, and just past his old barber shoppe - Alex Moe’s Barber - where he knew only but the greatest of avid forms: an expert pair of scissors. Certain representatives of the booming town proclaimed the primitive alleyways and sidewalks a blight upon a hominid’s feet, Mr. Timblae scoffed with conical dress shoes to break out into shallow high-rising dress pants. Unscathed and undaunted, the tall man made quick glances at the ridiculously unparalleled church.
Keen on the inner workings of mysteries surrounding old towns and cities, Mr. Timblae dispatched his own theories whilst heeding the hasten calls of his acquaintances. A cavity in his heart, he knew the frequent prospects of the incubation time of said malady. Indeed, the man had his fair messages of onset upper respiratory illnesses. A wheezing cough excited its way out of Mr. Timblae’s lungs as he stopped just shy of his apartment to ponder his own expedition into the ethereal world. Most knowingly, his last will and testament included nothing of utmost value to him nor any resident of Elkhart.
It reads as follows:
“Should I organize a former steward into the quarters of my late brethren, I, Jon H. Timblae write to those before - and after - me to heed the relaying messages. I ask for no pity nor primal induction into the literal thoughts and metaphorical societies alike.
An expedition was taken upon myself and a few curious wayward souls to venture into the caverns of Archaean Alabast Church. A smoothness was felt on the temptation of riches and utter significance. We had no astonishingly flexible mindset while entering the long forgotten tomb. Columns of ancient embeddings driven deep into the limestone cavern walls fueled our speculations as we pressed further. No sign of any life, water nor minerals. Dust hurried along in clouds of a distant aeon. No set arrangements were the framework from the membranous labyrinth.
Shortly after our dungeon crawl, we found ourselves separated in what could only be described as faint and scarred probabilities. Odd and rather primitive torches lit the way on our paths with rather ill-set sconces lined up every few feet. Uncanny in their alignment as a whole.
I had reached a corridor after, what seemed, hours of wandering below this wretched church; a curse. Along the underground walls, bright and familiar sconces I lit. To my surprise, embeddings along the ninety degree angles marked a repeated and wave-like utterance of disgust. I had not seen marking of such drivel since the finding of the Rosetta Stone in Egypt. These…hieroglyphics of sorts, amassed in unidentified alien form.
The dust had picked up and I could smell a faint sulphuric odour coming from just beyond the reach of my torch and the wall sconces I had lit. I had came upon a large lobby, opening as though it were the entrance to a banquet hall. This was an intriguing sight and rather uncouth.
Once on the barrier of this lobby, I stepped forward and revealed the inner workings with a wall sconce I had broken off rather easily. Majestic and foul, this banquet hall-esque room had a pillar of some creature in the middle. I had not communicated to myself with such dismay and awe since the great burning of Mishkatoshen river.
I crept forward, avoiding disturbance any further than what had already taken place. This must’ve been a place of worship before the church was erected. I had no time to ponder such idiocy my mind revealed. The illumination of the light lengthened the shadow of this reptilian figure. It was rather appalling in its silent gesture. Dormant and still, its engravings were surrounding the base of the pillar. A provisional dissection of this apparatus revealed a ruby coloured word which stood tall above all others. I had no such time to shout my curiosity as a faint and hair-raising chill came upon me.
It wasn’t in my best tidings to believe any such activity took place here. The acrid, diffusive smell suggested a nearby pool of defensive nature. Adapted to live in an airless hibernation, the undeterred dust, aroma and ever invasive haunting of this articulate maze made vocal its restlessness. It was a deafening distance followed by infinite horizons and eventually a suicide of the elder astronaut, far from refuge.
Savage barking was gaining momentum and reigning supreme in this hall. I neither saw nor heard footsteps clamoring for attention from me. As I peered back at the statue while backing myself out of this crypt, its vehement posture seemed to writhe free from just beyond the illumination of my artificial light. A hasty retreat fell upon me as I retraced my steps via the markings on the walls and the lining of the wall sconces.
I come to you all with these words to never venture into the caverns below Archaean Alabast Church. A dissonant surge in vile anomalies dwell within and I should never again see the light of this disgustingly beautiful labyrinth. Should I elaborate further in my discoveries, remains to be seen. The illness I’ve accumulated is hastening its icy grip on me.”
Eerie in form, the note once written by Jon Timblae floated from his apartment to nearby towns in a waft of terrible and unfortunate accidents. Most of the obscure and verbose word of mouth ventured deep into the heart of what was once known as the light of Elkhart.