All Hallows Eve
Dear reader this post is a departure from those I usually write of environment and the beauty of the earth. It belongs more rightly in a diary but I am compelled to send this missive and request lest time run short.
Those that are familiar with this web site know that usually there is a new entry every week. Perchance that you should notice that no new articles appear do not assume that I have tired of the writing craft, instead take notice of the mystified conclusion of this tale.
Long a bachelor with no living relative to notify I humbly ask that some reader who may be traveling to this island from the South Seas, the Orient, the land down under or mainland continent please make inquiry of the authorities and secure my rare collections and whatever may be found that remains.
It is only two short months since I moved into this infernal house high on the slopes of the volcano Haloaloa above Kailua in the ahuapa of Kaloko. The elevation is such that passing clouds stall and scrape along the forested side of the mountain. Rain is not infrequent but more common still is the dew and mist of shifting fog. The dampness pervades all things living and decayed in this primeval forest where great Ohia trees claw up at the grey sky. The variegated lower vegetation grows thick in dark ravines without ever having caught the glint of sunlight.
The abrupt death of the owner and quick sale of the apartment I had resided in on the warm sunny shore near Honumalino forced me to find new accommodations. Lack of choice and time coupled with the need to find a dwelling large enough to house my collection of antiquities and rare books is what led me here to this monolithic structure, more barn than house. I say barn as the windowless face of the building resembeles such, broken only by a massive header and heavy lintel. Behind a massive door twenty feet in height is the private storage chamber, (1/3 the foundation space) of the property owner, a Mr. Chang of indeterminate nationality and age. The remainder of the building is styled in futuristic architecture with broad impressions of vast angles. At first sight I was intrigued by the form and shape but now I find the tilted ceiling and sloping walls a disturbed design, the alien geometry all wrong.
The isolated location, removed from commercial enterprise and noise would be conducive to my studies and writing I thought. I realized too late the silence is complete. The normal sounds of nature, birdsong, crickets and peepers in the night are absent. A vacuum void of sound. That should have been a clue and now my eyes are open I see that it is so. What I thought good fortune at not seeing any spiders in the corners or ants across the counter, geckos scaling walls, should have been a clue. The birds and insects made no sound because none were there around…not so for the fungi.
The dampness left from clouds rolling past my door is a habitat for mold, and blue green spores. The leather is the first to go. Grotesque green fuzz on favorite shoes. On undersides of furniture or some item in the back of the cupboard grows a film of mold and nastiness. I thought of finding better accommodations but the dreaming kept me here.
The temperature in evening is cool and sleep is clear and deep. A pageant of flowing dreams, followed by waking refreshed, revitalized. The comfort of the dreamtime is a respite from daily stress and I found myself looking forward to the nighttime more and more. Something had stirred a sleeping memory of olden gardens, paths by flowing streams, a place so vast and ancient that measurement is feeble. My waking hours had less meaning and reality than my midnight journeys. The sun would set, my eyelids droop and I would be drawn to soar in prehistoric mists before this volcano formed, seeking that which ceaselessly lurks behind life in time and in space.
An unusual and curious thing occurred in mid October. One night about 3 a.m. my sleep was disturbed and I rose from bed sensing an odd presence. Still half in sleep I went to the sink for a drink of water. That was the first I noticed a distinct luminosity within that distorted geometry of the building. On closer inspection I realized the mold in every corner and seam of furniture was lit and glowed a gangrenous green. From the other side of that wall that separated my living space from the private chamber of the owner came a faint rhythmic slushy sound. Curious but not compelling enough to keep me from stumbling into bed and slipping back to sleep.
Over the course of the next few nights phantasms crowded sleep with indescribable scenes. Queer images replaced idyllic dreams. My waking hours had been reduced to less than four because drowsiness I could not fight enveloped me as soon as I walked through the door of that accursed house. My rest was fitful and voiceless whispers floated on the air calling me to somewhere and mumbling many secrets of ages far remote. As the moon was waxing full a new horror invaded the blasphemous place. Louder with each passing night I heard something gelatinous that flapped with regularity from the chamber locked behind the barn like door. Possessed and powerless my only solace was found in sleep even though that flabby nameless monstrosity beyond the wall continued to whisper secrets dark and deep.
Yesterday summoning my last reserve of strength I crawled from my disheveled bed determined to escape whatever spell that bound me to this mold infested lair. On wobbly unused legs I made it outside where no sun was shining, the sky could not be seen and lowering clouds were writhing between Ohia trees. Making my way towards my automobile I paused to rest a moment and catch my breath at an old Teak outdoor table by the drive.
A stub of half burned candle and time worn carved wooden box were sitting there on the table. The mysterious Mr. Chang might be somewhere near but I heard nothing. On closer examination of the designs on the rotting box I detected apparent hieroglyphs lined up in regularity that hinted of some prehistoric writing.
First looking round to see if Mr. Chang was there I carefully removed the lid of the worm eaten antiquity. Inside was that which I thought that I would never see. A book of which I’d heard many years ago while a student at Miskatonic University. Only five volumns are known to exist. My heart beat feebly as i read the faded golden letters on the mildewed leather cover. NECRONOMICON. I gathered up the box and tome and breathless retreated to those blasphemous rooms.
Tonight is All Hallows Eve and the moon is full. It is impossible to convey any idea of the monstrosities that are possible. Already I hear the formless pulp slithering next door.
What events in my strange and roving existence led me to this island matters little now. In my diminished condition I can only wait and read this tome that was written before humans walked the earth and hope I sleep no more tonight.
Recommended reading for more information of the Necronomicon see H.P. Lovecraft.