To denounce it as unreal – that is to say, lacking in unimagined authenticity – is to be blissfully naive. And yet, upon visiting the room of which the events occurred, one’s inspections would yield no evidence of an intruder of magnificent proportion. Instead, infantile illusion might have accounted for the happenings that affronted the dainty child, and indeed, the girl’s kin comprehended the story thus.
The matter began when the girl was conceived. No trouble came to her in her embryonic nine months, neither did it visit her in her growing years. Protected and well grown, her mind was affiliated with a certain splendid range of stimulation.
The mind, a complex entity comprising of paraphernalia beyond the understanding of the scientist and the philosopher alike, could be described by the mystic as possessing an intruder. Indeed, somewhere in the abyss of white and grey matter exists a primordial scream. One, too faint in volume for the average individual to hear. But, when the brain it resides in forces it to do so, the perpetrator emits a new call. A call of hunger, that bounces off the skull, creating an echoing with no end.
At the age of three, within the walls of a grand English house, Erin started sensing the echoes. Not consciously, it ought be known. No, it came in the form of night terrors. In her dreamworlds dark mists would chase the child, leaving her not alone. They hid under her bonnet to rest as close to her skull as possible.
“Why do I see this thing?” She had questioned her parents. Alas, being but dreams, no investigation was commenced by them.
At the wiser age of four, the echoing inside the girl’s head grew in magnitude. One night: a thudding, the next: a scream, and on a certain occasion: a vision.
Erin awoke in her sleeping chamber, lying on her back with dreams of darkness still swimming in her short term memory. A paralysis and panic rendered the girl still as a rock. It was only the eyes that retained a power to rotate. She looked into the immensity of the dark room, seeing parts illuminated by the moonlight, confused and afraid of her state.
“Help” she tried to call, but alas, her mouth would not comply with her will. Paralysed. Without warning, something darker than her own childish invention entered the facility. It came from below.
With four legs carrying something of cat like weight, it crawled under the bed sheets, over Erin’s toes and up to her chest until it arose abruptly from the blankets where only a ghastly outline of itself was perceivable in the sheer darkness of the room. The scream that could not escape the little girl’s lips came instead from the entity that sat on her chest. A scream: manic, metallic, mad. The child had not the ability to push the beast away, only one to rotate the eyes which helped not in vanquishing the intruder. Terror filled every vein and trickled down within the sweat that leaked from the girl’s pores.
The screaming continued. Until a snap sounded. The phantom raised itself, its silhouette against the moonlight, utterly foreign in form to that of any human, lept from the bed and disappeared from the room.
Left aghast, the power of movement slowly returned to Erin. But move, Erin did not; it was not wise to draw attention to oneself, lest the phantom return. Fear had awoken.
The mystic would call it a corruption: one that thrives and feeds on its host’s fear.
“It needs you alive, it needs your life. If you fear nothing, then it will stir” she howls, for the mystic feels the horror as crashing waves and hears the echoes as demonic bangs. She sees the faces that are concealed from others by night’s darkness. She understands. And reader, I beg of you to understand. I have gone mad from these visions, they come so frequently now, but I am no mad-person. God! It is in me, has formed an unwelcomed alliance with my own fantasy, and god it is in us all! Just listen to it. Listen! Hear the echoes drumming at your own skull. Hear the source, taunting you, caressing you, wriggling around, stirring, next to your own impressionable imagination!