Sable Street

A neon glow floats above the city of Ekhaara at night, like a phosphorous halo pleading absolution for the citizens below. This town is a den for many a thing—some good, some not so good, but most with no alignment whatsoever. Its buildings exhale indifference, and its streets churn out life how machines churn out smoke and oil.

Death’s Head shines like a distant star through my apartment window. It sits on a high point, raised just enough for your eye to catch its jagged visage. Its entry doors yawn wide for incoming visitors, unapologetic in their predatory appearance. You know it wants to devour you, and it knows that you know. Yet it opens wide anyway, confident that it will eat once again (and it always does). This is the natural order of the metropolis, and it will not be averted so easily. Not when it has survived this way for so long.

Not when it knows that I am its next guest.

The glass forming my window is both painfully thin and excruciatingly thick. Though I cannot feel the rain against my skin, I know it is cold, unforgiving, harsh as it hits the surfaces below. My eyes float to the horizon, tracing lines between the stars—lines that are both visually quantifiable and also beyond comprehension…lines of vast distance that would take an impossible number of lifetimes to travel. The mere thought of that distance makes my own lifetime seem so very small. It shrinks this planet to a mere rock in the quarry, a grain of sand in the dunes of reality. My heart expands, filling my throat with an iciness that rushes to my head. My neurons fire, trying hard to find myself in those dunes. But it is impossible, for my measurements are too finite, too minimal to read out on the universe’s equations…instead, I am rounded off to the nearest decimal. Just as society would have me disappear, the growing cosmos ensures I am lost in their magnitude. Yet another symptom of the machinations that brought me here, to this day.

My watch speaks loud and clear. It is time for me to once again make my journey—one I have made countless times. I’ve always done it, come rain or snow, come hell or high water, because my children need me to. It is perhaps this regularity that led to my discovery in the first place…so while I know they have been watching me, I can’t say for how long. Admittedly, once I felt their watching eyes, I did fear for my life, and like most living beings that feel this fear, self-preservation kicked in. I tried to save myself, in whatever ways I could. But even as I told my family, as I protected my kids, and as I called the police, begging for help, I think my heart always knew this was just another routine, a courting dance to mate with death, a set of tracks on the railroad to oblivion. Help is not coming, and my loved ones know they cannot stop this from happening. Their attempts will simply result in more gifts for Death’s Head (and prolong any chance of it dying of attrition, assuming that’s possible). No, there is nothing left, no other options. I have done my morning cleaning; I have cooked myself breakfast; I have dressed my children for school. Nothing left, but to step outside.

The keys feel cold in my hand—colder than usual—as I lock the steel door. The latch clicks, echoing in my head as my boots clank on the stairs. The rain continues on, conversing with my footfalls and whatever stray noise bellows from the halls. Down, down, down I travel, closer to the blackened streets below. My rhythm is slow but deliberate, until I reach a double-door exit bathed in sickly halogen light. The bulbs flicker when I shove the doors open, and the sound of rainfall skyrockets in volume. It’s coming down harder than I thought.

My boots splash through puddles of graying water. Lambent purples and electric blues hover overhead. They seem so bright today, and there’re more people curbside than I expected. Some groups walking, a few couples eating, a man laughing. Opaque skies above, solid concrete underfoot. My brain sparks to life for a brief moment, and I decide to turn left down Sable Street; I would typically continue down Carceri Way, for it is the most direct route to the store. (I know that it doesn’t matter which way I go—they will always find you. But it does feel like a choice, a small bit of rebellion.) I clutch my bag as I swivel, preventing it from swinging around my body.

Time passes all around…it is not me, but the city that moves. It crawls past me like a slow sunrise, blinding me with rays of destitute beauty. I’ve never understood its quality until now, but who are we to ever understand such things? If we did, perhaps we’d live our lives differently. Perhaps the colors of the world would shine brighter in our eyes.

I turn to the right, onto a street I rarely go down, whose name I did not look for. My eyes fall upon a relic from eternities long gone, an artifact from a past life…a poster bearing the face of Moriah Natara, shredded by wind and soiled by rain. Even in the photo, her brown skin looks smooth and strong, like treated oak—like my own skin. Her smile is forced but still radiant. Much time is between us, as well as the time when they would speak her name, when they would call out for her, when they would fashion likenesses in her image. We all know where she is, but we pretend otherwise. We have always willfully surrendered our bodies of knowledge unto the grave keepers of the universe, and they have always returned these bodies to us coated in the embalming fluid of humanity’s ignorance, to placate our minds and maintain our peace.

I make another turn—this time to the left…yes, here it comes. The change is immediately evident. Blues and purples still hover above, and there is still rainfall from the opaque skies…but there are no people, no one walking by. (The city knows, just as I know.) It knows, so it shies away from death, as it always has. This behavior is not unique to Ekhaara, nor any other place…it is human nature, just as death itself is. But like always, the grave keepers will hold their oath, and we will receive our corpse for burial.

Then, of course, the imminent fade of time.

The rain continues, as do I. The quiet is not lost on me, but I tread forward. Finally, something shifts in the distance…the sight is almost a relief to bear. First one void, then many, all oozing from the cracks of the world like slime from woodwork. They are made of shadow (they do not speak—neither do I). They come closer, and I do not stop my stride until I am surrounded.

So this is that fluid, and peace will be preserved.

Their faces still have color, but their eyes—my god, their eyes…white as the brightest star, whiter than possible in the perpetual darkness of this city. And they all wear the same peaceful smile—the kind of smile that shows prescience, that boasts of foretold knowledge. It’s the smile you wear when you know what’s coming, when you’re watching a movie and your favorite part is next. The grin of truth, the rictus of understanding.

I reach inside my bag. The muzzle flashes once, twice, five times. I know it’s pointless (but it’s biology; can you blame me for trying?). I don’t know how many fell, if any did, because they descend so swiftly.

Screams, tearing of muscle, the gnashing of teeth, and the snap of bone.

Darkness descends. When it lifts, they are dragging me upright by my arms, as the steel toes of my boots carve scars in the dirt. (Their grasp feels like nothing—certainly not human.) All I can see is that curséd estate, the maw of Death’s Head, grinning with that same anticipation. It waited here for me—of course it did! It would never abandon me, because it loves me, and it knows I love it too. I’ve always loved it; we all have.

come closer, child

The doors open—seemingly on their own. I see two more shadows, one grasping the wooden frames on each door. The entry is so large, large enough to fit another building through. I suppose it had to be that large, to get (Him) through. I see another door, roughly the same size, but with a strange symbol carved on its front, high above my reach. The symbol deepens and widens in my gaze, (it is a Shape) opening itself in marvelous, terrible waves. Directly in front of me, the door bears this manor’s namesake: a carving of a moth, with a skull on its thorax. (No Blacks who have seen this moth have lived to tell about it.)

Ahh, the air…it’s so dry. It feels like this atrium is frozen in time, like not even the molecules are permitted to move. Dust hangs above my head, stricken by the residual glow from the nexus that is Ekhaara.

i, hunger

My arms are returned to me. I crumple upon floorboards that are damp and taste of mildew. Sensation floods me…I can feel they did not touch my sidearm, my knife, my phone. (They don’t care that I have them.) My arms press on the rotting wood, and I raise my head high, to look at that Shape again. It converses with my eyes, blooming like a horrible flower, a technicolor nightmare. It reaches out to me; it kisses my skin. It wraps lecherous tongues around my heart and penetrates my soul.

you will give me flesh

The lock on the door is powerful. It will not move, lest the Klansmen of Death’s Head move it. And I know why it is so powerful—my mind can feel it…something is behind that door, something incredible (of course it is). It feels larger than this house, larger than Ekhaara itself. Such horrifying strength, yet this door separates us. (How could it hold back such a power?) It does beg the question, Perhaps this is why they waited for so long? Maybe they starve the power, so it does not overwhelm them…but if they are servants, why would they do this? Maybe this power restrains itself. Maybe it has its own routine, just as I have (had) mine. Maybe it is just walking down its own Sable Street, and I am its left turn into a new path.

corporis sacris, for god and for glory

The massive symbol folds upon itself, like the dying flower it portrays. Death’s Head unhinges its jaw, and the moth spreads its wings wide. A skull opens up like a haunted puzzle box, revealing its devilish mind. A void engulfs the room—one that grips so tightly that not even sound can escape. I reach down to my hip, searching for my knife. No one is here to stop me. Perhaps there is one last choice I can make.

She will come down in the rot

This day (nor this body) is mine. But none of this ever was. It has always belonged to them. They have already consumed it—they did long ago…and I see the ends of this time. I have seen the resurrection, what will rise from the Well, how all will disappear. I could not at first, but time is a cruel harbinger. I am simply delivering just desserts, doing my final run on the course laid out for me. Now (and always), the K’Klusse will reclaim its rightful dominion.

salvation befalls the four who trust

I have no questions about fate, nor pain, nor what the face of mortal horror will show me. My only question is: how many times will I walk down Sable Street before power is dead—before the grave keepers retire, and the truth reveals itself among all who writhe in it like flies trapped in the sweet, sticky fabric of existence?

the four who survive, the summoning

One swift stroke. That should do it.