The Devotions of The Macabre

Some nights you dance teary eyed under the moonlight, and some nights you lie in a motionless crimson bed under the escaping sunlight.

A smooth, white, porcelain - elegant even in its everlasting perfection. Smooth jazz wanders through the door, like winds flying through the clouds, freeing in its wake. Cracks of light break through porcelain shadow, a dry, aching, prison of cement. The dawn commands to be seen, to be noticed, hailing a story to be told through luminescent shadows of light, accentuating hidden windowsills and a supernatural ache that lingers around the corner. The glowing light illuminates something far in the pitch blackness. through waves of tar, the crackling light features a face. It brings two black orbs into the focus, the spotlight. Swirling in those marble orbs was an acute terror, a black ink swirling into the depths of something sinister. Yet, through the black, deep beneath vein and muscle - those empty sockets provided a shining light, a glimmer of yellow white.

A blurring tar paints the wooden floorboards, a masterpiece canvas, the rolling marbles intertwine with the brown, rusted floor. A wood that had once belonged to mother nature, a tree. A wood that had tasted the labours of life once long ago, now old and rusted. Rolling towards the entrance, scrambling frantically across an endless platform, the black orbs chased for freedom. Now they crash, soft and dry against a door. A door.

A crimson red door.

With sudden gusts of wind, like the crashing and thrashing waves of the sea knocking at our door - the crimson door swings open. With it, a space once enclosed creates an extent of awareness to an outer space.

And with the opening of one crimson door, all suffering and pain was inflicted upon an outer space, outer world.

With that opening stemmed humanities greatest hate, and unto a new generation - terror was born.

CHAPTER ONE: A Bewitched Inferno

An inferno not lit with the fumes of sighs, like passion is. A hot, power-fueling, head-melting disease. Love was not lit by the fumes of sighs - instead, it was lit together. Hand in hand, as the flames engulfed every breathing aspect of our dying light.

Love was not a popular nor uncommon occurrence in my life. Instead, it was a non-existent one. Young children heard my voice and sobbed in a melody that haunted my ears. The elderly looked downward ominously and waited silent, bothering me not with a pointless lecture that they did the others. Adults would sneer and rush their children away into their homes, safe and sound.

Because of their neglect, I grew with no home, no brother, and no family.

Because of their neglect, their little village would soon learn the echoes of my name.

And I wouldn't dare be forgotten.

"Our town came to be known specifically because that young man burned at the stake and suffered a bewitched inferno of flames."

"Our town; Nexpyre."

As on command, a ringing bell echoed through the building, stinging and sharp. In that instant, windows closed, seats stumbled, and people scattered around the room, rushing out. Realising, I tumble around, trying to gather my books and possessions in a haste. I rush my things into my bag, preparing to leave. Clumsily, I tumble around, rushing to the exit door. My face suddenly engulfs in a soft darkness, a surreal embrace. And I don't seem to find the doorway whatsoever. A voice booms above me; he clears his throat. Shit, I panic internally.

I brush myself off, taking a few steps backwards, estranging myself from the warm yet cold embrace of this person. I look up to a face that instantly forces me into looking downwardly once more. My eyes beam outwardly, widening in shock. My palms grow sweaty, not in anticipation but in an acute fear. I stumble around in my own head, searching for something, no, anything, to say. But the edges of my mind grant me no solace in this terrifying moment.

History always repeats itself? No. More like history always comes crashing back into your face; or you into its' face.

"Ivar. What do you think you're doing?"

His voice entailed naught but a harsh, rough, spine-breaking hate. Yet there was a shining white gleam within his eyes, a not so hidden mockery of me.

I just nodded, looking downward. I try to find my voice, but it seems to have been frightened away and hides in the dark of my chest.

"I apologise, just let me-"

"No."

"No? What-"

He simply smirks, leaning against the door.

A silent fury builds up within me. The face of a person that I wished not to see. Someone that I had only hoped would not revisit the story of my life. I gulp, trying to rid my throat of this inescapable tightness. My palms sweat but rather in frustration than doubt. I could not do anything. anything at all.

"Let me through, Rune. I have places of far more importance to be."

A vein ticks in his forehead. he lets a controlled gust of harsh air out from his lips and moves out of the way.

But he does not move before resting a single fingertip on my face.

His breath hitches and for a bittersweet single moment, mine stops completely.

Then, just against the tip of my ear, he whispers something with a sour taste. Something vengeful.

"I know. They know. Everyone knows. What you did."

"And we'll always remember."

He utters that last sentence aloud for any not-so-innocent passerby to overhear.

Frantic, panicking, and with a mushed-up mind, travelling through dimensions of hate and hurt, I search around every crevice, creak, and corner within the threshold of my feeble consciousness for an answer - How do I stop these tears that drown my soul?

Unable to control any part of my actions or inner self, I rush past him and ran. I ran through halls of gossip and deceit, rushing towards the one path that does not deny me.

Panting and gasping, I reach a state where my lungs feel the weight of air finally granted to them. I stop completely at a door.

The library.

My sanctuary.

Walking inside, waves of comfort crash into my entire being. Walls upon walls are adorned by the soft, sweet ruffling of pages. The dust collects stories of lifetimes before our own. It brings me a beautiful peace. Pulling out a wooden chair, I sit at the same wooden table I always sat at. Etched with blobs of yellow and brown, swirling to create a perfect golden brown, it always stays the same. Exactly how it is every time I've left it.

Except this time, something feels different. A library has its quiet, yes. But the ruffling of pages, the clicking of doors. A dead silence washes over me. I see an absolute nothing. I feel an absolute nothing. I hear an absolute nothing.

A dark, rusted cover presents itself before me. Created with a shockingly hot metal, placed before me was a book that carried the weight of an entire generation with it.

Sharply swaying the clouds of dust covering the title away, I find its long awaited title.

The book was titled; The Red Door.

CHAPTER TWO: The Red Door

My hand turns the cover. My hand turns the cover...

But this book reveals its desire not to be read - a metal cover that cannot be opened with one hand. I then push forward, using both hands.

"Ugh..." I groan to myself, my hands suffering a dreaded bruising. Eventually the cover turns, smashing itself against the wooden table.

Inside details the story of one young man, a man who revolutionised the world. A man who named our town. One that would be soon called "Nexpyre."

My eyes scan the letters from page to page, and with each swift turning the words evolve into a sinister storytelling.

"Pfft. So, you're reading garbage like usual, again?"

His voice echoes in my mind. I turn to take a look.

Why is Rune here?

"What are you doing here?" I'm shocked, and yet I can't bring myself to look away.

Every time I look into those shadowy eyes, I can't help the flood of remorse. What happened that day, it changed us forever, did it not?

"Hand over that book, loser. Let me see it."

"What? No!"

We struggled and the ancient text stumbled around in our grasp. A shiny little thing clattered to the floor.

Despite mud and rust, it held a golden shine.

A stopwatch.

"Uh... Is that a... stopwatch?"

I pick it up, trying to make out the nonsensical words smudged with ink and dirt.

"Uhm..." I softly adjust my glasses and squint my eyes, what were those words?

Click once,

You'll seek yourself to be a liar

Click twice,

lit the immortal and mortal on fire

But

Beware to

Click thrice,

For the devil rises from his eon long slumber.

For the first time in months, me and him looked each other in the eyes. Square in the eyes.

What was this?

"Listen to me, Ivar. We should- should- take this book somewhere. Tell someone at the station, or-"

"No. We find something this insane in our small town and your first thought is to lock it away?! This is an ancient text."

I took the book and stopwatch with me and just like that, I left him there.

We were both reeling and exhausted from such an interaction.

CHAPTER THREE: The Devotee

Surrounded by the blooming daisies, the yellow and green blotches of grass sway against my back. I raise a hand to my forehead, the sun blinds me with its overarching light, commanding attention to the story it wishes to tell.

"Just tell me your story already, sweet sun."

The sun turns to me, and she gently prods;

"No. My bittersweet, mortal, soul. When the time is right."

Suddenly I feel myself shifted into a quiet darkness. The moon shines bitterly.

Weeping and weeping, he screams.

"Why won't she see my pain? Oh, to long for a sky where the light shines..."

I reach out, my arms pointing towards the sky, offering a hand to the moon.

"Please, let me help you. PLEASE."

His cries become a silent whisper, a quiet, whimsical wind.

"No, I cannot do that, my friend."

"We must wait until the time is right, until our story is told."

My eyes shoot open, frantically bulging out of my head, searching and glancing around the room. I had another dream. I can't recall what it entailed.

The memories of yesterday flood into my head like a thrashing thunderstorm, always leaving traces of shock and suffering in its wake.

I need to find Rune. I have nobody else to help with this. Damn it.

My brain searches for an answer. There has to be someone else.

But there isn't.

I find myself heading out the door, scrambling through all my intricate, little things, stuffing them into a small and tight bag.

A constant, stinging ring. I really need to change my ringtone. I reach for my bedside table, atop it lies my phone. My hand blindly hits into the wall instead. I groan and force my body to sit up. I really don't have the will to be awake today. My body aches with a fresh laziness.

"What to do today..." I mutter in small whispers to myself. I'm so damn bored.

The memories flooded back in tidal waves. Shit. What was that guy going to do?

"Son, you have a guest here for you." The monotone timbre of my father's voice rings out through the house walls.

Walking tirelessly down the steps, I lazily march over to the front door. "Who...?" I rub my eyes with the effects of a sleepless night.

His face. It was Ivar again. In his hand was that stopwatch again.

I sighed, loud and harsh. My father raised a glare towards me. I looked down and then up again, meeting Ivar's eyes.

"My bedroom is this way. We can talk there." I made the 'talk' part excruciatingly clear so that my father would cease his strange glances at me. He waved his hands and then said;

"Ah... well. I've got to ready myself for work now."

He walked off, somewhere in the house.

As we both walked up the steps, I felt something bubble up within me, a strange, disastrous feeling.

"Spill it. What do you want from me?" I grouched with a tired rasp in my tone.

"Uh... Are you good? You look as if you've had no sleep at all..." He stared me up and down and I felt seen. But in the wrongest of ways.

"Stop avoiding the question! That isn't the point here."

"Well, I just thought I'd have to investigate this stopwatch further and... God, this is so uncomfortable. I don't want your help. You'd probably just hand the stopwatch over to your dad!" He was babbling on and on about matters that were inconvenient, of no importance to me.

"Well, here's the thing. I need your help."

"I have a really bad feeling about this, but still, I need your help."

I paused. This guy wants my help? Wasn't he smart or something...

My palms grow sweaty and I feel a certain oddness overtake me. I reply with,

"Why? what is this even about?"

Before either of us respond, I hear the pitter patter of gentle rain outside my window. A soft water raining down on the earth, but it grows. A growing storm.

"What the..."

"Why is it suddenly so...

dark?"

CHAPTER FOUR: SCULPTED IN ASH

Me and Rune scramble down the stairs, realising we'd forgotten about his father. It was as if simultaneously, we'd felt it etched across our bodies, that inescapable, palpable dread. The television was playing with a frizzy glitching, a legend of black and white flashes. The colourful light of the screen covered the couch in green, purple, and some other hue, which I couldn't quite make out. My eyes looked away from the static swirl of the television and downward to the couch.

My eyes bulge out, almost falling away completely. I tremble, both visibly and audibly shaking from sheer horror. An acute sense of a terror-filled dread. I was, in simple terms, scared. Utterly and inexplicably terrified.

Arms bent backward.

Two light blue orbs washed away with a crimson hue.

And as his head rolled toward me, I couldn't explain just how I felt about it.

It was Rune's father.

And scratched, etched, bled into the wall was a warning.

A warning written in a red liquid, crimson as far as the eye could see.

A liquid that I prefer inside one's body than outside.

It was blood.

With the rushed steps downward, a startled expression, Rune took in a deep gasp of air. He kept on taking in gasps of air, but none ever seem sufficient enough to define this kind of ache.

His eyes bulge out too, but not in dread, fear, or some kind of inexplicable gut feeling.

Instead, it was in a way that communicated a lonely kind of frightened. The fear of 'alone'.

"FATHER!!!" He repeated the words. Over and over, and over. Endlessly. Countlessly. With as much dread and hopelessness and fear that one could ever feel.

He yelled and screamed, his voice so raw I was sure his throat was bleeding.

What then followed was a sadness that in turn made me sad. I felt waves of thundering guilt crash into me, though I had no hand in this kind of end to someone's lifespan.

With soft tears, he couldn't bear to see it anymore.

Until we both came to see a bigger picture, or rather a bigger message.

A giant, brooding message.

Painted right there, on the wall.

The devil shall awaken from his eon long slumber.

You mortals will in fact

YOU WILL

Summon him with a tick of thrice

You deranged, little mice

of this planet

Trembling, we both cannot do it. We force our necks to the side, and in our state of motionless terror, we break through the thresholds our bodies have contained us in, and we turn our heads to each other.

"Rune, we-"

"I'm so... so scared, Ivar."

his voice a constant tremble, wavering between darkness and light. A sad song, a cry to be heard.

He reminds me of the moon sometimes, that Rune.

The moon? I feel a whisper on my tongue, a sound in my ears, and a thought in my soul. That statement brings a faint longing for a memory that has not yet returned to my conscious mind.

And soon, me and Rune found ourselves lost within the embraces of one another, something that shouldn't have happened so soon.

I was cold and stiff, lost in the shackles of my fear.

He was shaking and teary eyed, crying into my shoulder.

it was then that we came into contact with a monster, spirit, ghost, eldritch being, call it what you may.

marks caressing it's skin, crimson blood leaking from all its pores.

It spoke with a rasp, a glitch, in his tone. Like the static from the television.

"Your fate has risen upon you, humans. You will now die. Let the summoning complete itself."

"And my beautiful master shall awaken."

We were mistaken. It was never the man who died by flames;

instead, it was the woman.

A woman died with her lover by fire. She could never take what the country did. So now, with our deaths, she would again, rise by fire.

But through the smoke, I witnessed something else.

We did not die.

But it was clear we would burn.

To burn for the sins committed in the presence of the red door.

The red door that cursed humanity.