Through the Eyes of Aberration

Greetings, readers. I have written this for the Halloween 2026 contest. I got inspired by a few things and felt an homage to a master of eldritch horror would be fitting. I know it isn't perfect, and it has a lot of my own spin (and quite a bit of a time crunch) but with all that, I hope you all enjoy.

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CRACKWHOOSHKWAH! The window burst into smithereens. I had forgotten about the storm. The machine gun rain and the cascading thunder had slowly dissolved into the idle busyness of background noise. This was clearly an affront, as it made sure to let everyone know this lack of attention was unacceptable.

The pitter patter of hurried feet. The whirring of an electric motor. It didn't take long for the librarian and some volunteers to slap a piece of wood over the damage in a quick repair. I doubted it would last long, but anything would do for now.

Once their task was complete, they turned and caught me looking. They gave me small, polite smiles. I took it to mean that they wanted my help the next time it happened. They didn't say as much though as they dispersed throughout the building once again. If only they knew how bad I am with my hands.

Quite frankly, I was glad the citizens of Brisby-Ulverscroft were doing well enough to leave me alone. I had been, and still am, quite apprehensive of my visit here. Quaint, but being in the heart of Maine on one's own... Let's just say the possibility of small town shenanigans crossed my mind quite a few times. Not to mention, any of the other disturbing connotations that my whimsical quest was starting to hint at.

Ah, yes. The quest. Leading me here. To the middle of nowhere. In a frightful storm. To read through manifests, journals, newpaper clippings, whatever they had that might lead me to my answer.

I can't quite remember what exactly got me started on this feverish pursuit of knowledge. All I know now is that it has taken me far, and will take me farther. Part of me can't help but laugh at my naïveté, since if any of it lends itself towards a secret truth, all I was doing was launching myself headfirst into realms not meant for meager folk like me.

Finding any sort of truth behind the strange stories of HPL, that numerous fanatics and historical societies hadn't, is already a task in of itself, however I feel my approach a little novel, if not amateur. Pick out-of-the-way places in rural New England and hope that they have material from the late 19th century that could possibly line up.

What has my focus at the moment was a small article from The Chawapitasimek Chronicle circa 1887. I must say the sensationalism at which they employed at the time was quite fantastic, which, given if it were true, would be quite the sensation indeed.

Report is of alien creatures decimating the local fish population. These 'aliens' are described as leaving behind hooked tentacles, some two feet at maximum. At the ends of these tentacles were rows upon rows of hooks in a circular pattern, speculated by the reporter to be used for a maximum grip whilst the alien fed on the fish. There is a small sketch provided and I can't help but feel a little let down.

Given the description and the sketch, it is obvious to me that they were merely sea lampreys that had wandered from the ocean and up the Chawapitasimek River, similar to what had befallen the Great Lakes many years prior.

Plausible at least, and plausible is about the best I can expect on a fact finding mission such as this. Sure, I can't prove one would know about it at the time, well outside the county. However it was around the right time in around the right place. I check it off the list as a potential inspiration.

Eyes again. I can feel them. It makes me shiver. I don't like being watched. Especially when that gaze more than likely comes from a man. I knew to expect it. New pussy seems to dredge this sort out of the woodwork.

Not the time to leave. Not yet. Even though the machine gun had stopped firing and the cascade had lessened to a distant trickle. Better to be paranoid and safe than at the mercy of some prick, in more ways than one.

Briskly the materials are gathered and to the front desk to return them. The hairs raising on the back of my neck, all too aware of being followed by sight. The librarian took them from me, her warm smile putting me at ease, if only a smidge given the circumstances.

"Find what you were looking for?"

"Sort of. I found one thing at least."

"Well that's good."

"Need any help with anything before I go? Anything to put away or anything like that?"

Her smile split into beaming before shaking her head softly from side to side.

"No, no. That is very kind of you to offer. Go ahead and get some rest. I'm sure you have plenty to get to tomorrow."

Outside now and running. It doesn't matter that the ground is slick with moss and the rainwater. I got out of there as fast as I could. I didn't need to meet the owner of those eyes. Brick houses flashing by in darkened crimson before making it to the hotel.

And as I lie here, finally in bed, I try to tell myself little comforts that will lead me to Dreamland, to somewhere I will be safe for a little while.

Wreathed the top of the tower in impossible geometry. It wasn't right. There had been no sign. The Earth was in a deathly plight, for the stars weren't right. Yet here we are as if in defiance of the cosmic cycles of which we are made to follow.

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I'm awake and left with the vague impressions of masses upon masses of tentacles, and of unknown things with nucleic tendencies. I surmise that this is due to all the influences of the Miskatonic. At least it is only present in my dreams. Well, from what I know so far anyway. Some deep, dark corner of myself is still hoping that these horrors are somewhat true, and that all life will take on a hideous new meaning. All in a spirit of adventure I guess and a want of things well beyond humanity.

Undoubtedly misanthropic, but the course of the world had proven me right, is proving me right, and will prove me right again. Some outside force is needed to bring us all in line and this is a slight sliver of hope in that regard. As much as I am trying not to admit it, that is as much a motivator as my unyielding curiosity.

Hairs raise up again. I hope it's just a spider or something that I haven't quite registered consciously. I know that this isn't the case. Someone is out there, and someone is looking in. I rush to the window and see no one. Whomever they are they are doing a fine job of staying hidden. I have to hurry and get out of here.

Reluctance claims me. There is still City Hall to comb through. Despite my misgivings I soldier on. Surely, the voyeur won't take any action against me. At least not yet. Thank goodness the storm had subsided in full.

Outside, the damage is quite obvious. The library had gotten lucky it was one window that had shattered as many storefronts and other buildings had gotten it a lot worse. I notice an elderly couple picking up debris. It doesn't hurt to gain a few temporary allies, especially if one is getting stalked.

"Bless your heart."

We pick up the pieces and get to some level of order before the noon day sun fires up. I mention about hightailing it out of Brisby-Ulversport but the wife sports a sour look.

"No chance of that any time soon, dearie. The winds went and blew down half the forest. Roads in and out of here will be blocked for the better part of a fortnight. I've also heard tell of the Chawapitasimek being too untamed for safe passage. Best rough it out here in the meantime."

Dismay turns to despair. The leisurely attitude I had attributed was in fact a lazy patience, knowing full well of the situation at hand. Trapped.

Stifling a cry, I left the couple and walk towards my destination. This cannot be happening. I have never been in a situation like this and have never wanted it. One who goes unnoticed. One who is unseen. Never meant to be put under a lens, and yet here, my presence is unleashed and someone took a liking to it. I am dirty. I am unclean.

No recourse. The path must be continued. Lost in thought as I am I barely notice the man in front of me. Given that he is blocking the path inside the hall, we must exchange pleasantries.

"Oh, pardon me."

"No, no, I was in your way. Excuse us."

I take note of the annoyace and proceed inside.

Fruitless. Nothing of import. My head is strained and my body feels wound up but stretching does little to avail. Bits and pieces feeling sunken into flesh. It has been some time since I last had some water.

Weary, I traversed the lanes to find some sort of eatery that wasn't closed. My focus so much on finding such a place that it takes me a moment to realize that it has gone deathly quiet, everything deciding in unison to be perfectly still.

My head lifts up and my breath escapes my lungs as fast as it is able and refuses to return. Prickles crawl up from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head. It is the man that I almost ran into at City Hall, the one who holds those perverted eyes.

He walks towards me, a smug and confident look on his face. My mind races as I come up with all the ways I am about to violated.

"The Italian place is pretty good. If you needed a recommendation."

Psychic damage never before seen on this terrestrial plane blasts from my eyes. Ineffective. He laughs.

"Not the talkative type? That's ok I can talk for both of us. How about we go and have dinner together? You're new in town, right? You could use a guide. Such as it is, I have the time to do so, especially for you. Oh right, introductions. Pete Sardinetin. Officer Pete Sarinetin. And you, miss?"

Like talking to a brick.

"Right, not the talkative type. Alright, this way."

Get to the lectern and a much too familiar look was given by the maître d'hôtel.

"Good God, Peter. Not another one."

"Oh yes, another one. A private table, if you would please."

It is a fugue in which I exist now. I am solely preoccupied on if I am going to make it out of this or not. That new information that I just received. The implications don't leave me hopeful. My gracious tour guide must not notice that I am not paying attention to him.

"Let's pick out something from the private stock. Follow me, dear."

Feet felt like miles. A slow motion affair. Tables with happy faces and full stomachs. Blissfully unaware or purposefully ignoring so that their small bit of peace they had carved out for themselves wouldn't be disturbed. Loathsome. Vile. Wretched little humans.

Down the dark stairs we go, where we are left to our own devices, next to large barrels and racks upon racks of bottles of wine. Sardinetin lights a candle for us to see.

"And to set the mood. We all know candlelight is quite romantic."

Struck by an odd sensation. If I am to go down with the ship, then I must be the captain. It will be my own little joke. I'll go along with anything they say because that's what I am meant to do. This is the role I was forced into, and as such I will play it to perfection.

Grabbing his shoulders, I shove him up against a barrel. His countenance betrays a small fear before it curls into a goofy snarl, a sure sign of deluded victory. My hands run up and down his back as I lean my forehead into his, letting him feel my hot breath against his neck as I travel lower and lower down his body.

When I reach his belt, I look up and give him the sexiest look I can muster. The belt slips through loop after loop, finally revealing the button of his trousers. I undo it and gently pull the zipper down, making it as much of a show as I can. His breathing is getting jagged now. I slide his pants down to his ankles and i feel his hands roam to the back of my head. A dim glint catches my eye.

Metal. That's a spring and a kill bar. A rat trap. Smart for a cellar. There's enough light to tell that it is set for firm. Good, that helps my new plan. I place my fingers beneath his waistband and tug down. Immediately I am met with a musk. Could the motherfucker at least wash his pathetic little cock before doing this kind of shit?

His boxers go to join his pants and his head tilts back, a 'Hooooo' escaping his mouth. I can't help but smile as I reach for the trap and slam into his crotch before he can gather what the heck is going on.

Shrill shrieks of pain echo throughout the cellar. I run. Up and out into the restaurant, my blur of motion causing a murmur amongst the crowd. No one stops me. I make it into the night.

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My only hope is the river. I know not the technical workings of boats but if it floats I'm taking it and getting the fuck out of here. I don't think that the townsfolk are brave enough to save me from the local constabulary.

Through the hillsides and the many layered greens of the Maine countryside I plunge. I have no time to appreciate it. The hoots of owls follow my steps before the tremendous roar of the Chawapitasimek comes into audial view.

Legs are burning. Lungs on fire. I have to keep going but the fear and the physical stress and the tears blur my vision. I can't stop. Surely, they are coming. To the river. To the river.

I realize my mistake as it happens. My left foot sinks lower and lower and lower, until it is wet and is forcefully pulled from me and at last I am submerged. Found it.

That distorted image of a man. That wheel of color flashing. We know what he means to tell us, and we do not like his message.

Coughing arouses me. I am in a small unknown bed. My clothes have been changed. There's light outside, and the sounds of maritime industry reverberate sending sharp pangs around my skull. I try not to move in fear of throwing up.

Adrenaline seizes me once more. There is no guarantee my would be captor hasn't rounded up a posse and they might be hot on my tail. With newfound chemical confidence, I stumble and drag my way across well worn planks, touched by the sea for an unknowable amount of time.

To the town might be suicide. I'll have to see if there is a backdoor or some such thing to gain my bearings and figure a way out. My "saviour" appears to be missing. This is to my advantage.

Slight breeze. That door there. I go to it and pull it open.

Met with one of the most horrific smells I have ever had the pleasure of smelling. Thoughts of what the point of a nose actually is dominated my mind. Then the darkness consumed all before me. A tunnel. No light whatsoever, and based on the smell and the amount of moisture, it went straight to the sea.

Legs moved one after the one against my own volition. Compulsion was an understatement. I had to get to the bottom of the tunnel. Hands clawing at the armrail so as to prevent another mishap into dark bodies of water.

Sounds come from deep below. The motion of the water surely the culprit. Who knows how many inaccessible branches ran amok down here, allowing all sorts of frantic, altered symphonies to be conducted? I notice something peculiar though. An almost biological tinge to some of them. I can sense on the edge of familiarity haunting names being uttered in places one does not tread. As soon as I think of this, it stops, and a loud splash is heard from none too far ahead. I pray that that is all it is.

Right beneath the surface I swear I can see a shadow. A shadow that moves standing still. I am sent into a frenzy but I am frozen. I must go deeper, I says. My initial thought is that R'lyeh hasn't risen so what is that doing there? Was there movement though? It is quite dark, only the doorway above providing a most minute amount of light, and fear does a hell of a thing to the sights that are seen. If there was, it was something gargantuan. I try not to linger in the presence of something that could be lurking so close beneath the depths.

Path opens to my left and I take it to a small grotto. There is an aperture that most go to the surface as everything is lit in a soft light. I'm reminded of the times I held a flashlight to the ceiling in my apartment. Quite soft, nothing very defined, but enough light to function in. There are books here. Just a few, and they are miraculously untainted by the sea air so close by.

A title jumps out at me; Von Unaussprechlichen Kulten. This shouldn't be. On many a level. It is conjugated correctly. It also shouldn't be a book. Is this a joke? I spy something in a language I know not what, but screams to me that it is a lost translation of the Book of Eibon.

This is my quest. This is the veil slightly pulled back. The meaning of these revelations has yet to hit me. I know what it means, but I don't know what it means. In my growing fear and lust, I tear through each volume, gaining nothing as the symbols held within are beyond my comprehension. As one might expect on books dealing with things beyond devils.

Sobs begin to crawl their way up my throat, and I can't tell where the laps of the waves just outside and my own tears blend into the wetness on my face and the puffiness of my eyes. It is too much. It's done so well. That is the only thing helping me cling to any sort of faith in my simple reality. Real copies surely wouldn't be so preserved. Strange magicks could certainly account for it, but there is no real evidence of such things. Could just be a cruel prank done by the locals. The author is quite popular after all. However, my eyes drift over to something I have never heard mention of, not even in the fantasy lands of written fiction.

This piece, of what would seemingly be a monograph, is titled Psychonautica: The Principles of Angles Over Keys by one Gevangen Neestliets. My heart is leaping out of my chest. My hands are unsure and shaking. Each turn of each page is a punishment for crimes I do not know I have committed. The concepts are too much for me to grasp but they are leaving distinct impressions on my mind. Somewhere, a wheel is turning, and I am getting a message I do not like.

Stomach turns into a solid wall. The dread. It spreads beneath my skin, a million hands, five hundred fingers drumming along, pulling themselves beneath the surface. I can't take it. Get them out. Get them out. They don't listen. They continue forward against my wishes. Get me out. Get me out.

I put my hand on the glass that holds me. Each minute. Each degree. All splinters return to the plank from whence they came. Oh well, maybe I'll get to dream again. It'd be a welcome change of--

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Plucked am I from perpetual darkness. My breaths are ones of supreme exertion. Sweat clings to my body, a new outfit for me to wear for the next minutes. A man in black oilskins stands above me. I feel I can trust him.

"Almost lost you there for a minute."

His voice is gravelly and a comfort. His black moustache disappears into his black beard and his face wears age like the most comforting of sweaters. I can tell he is younger than he looks.

"What happened?" My words are slurred through grogginess. I come to realize that there is a burning sensation in my nose. It has pleasantly replaced the rank ichor of the depths.

"Well, to start, I found you in the river. Then, I came back here to you screaming at the bottom of the tunnel, raving like a lunatic about the ways are shut, that the angles need to be reached, and then just plain gibberish from there. Luckily I still have some smelling salts and it seemed to bring you out of whatever that was. Still don't know how you got down there, that's a solid steel door with a seal to keep the fumes out. Factory moved in and started dumping things into the sea, started making me a bit touched in the head so I had to seal off the cave. Right shame, that."

Was a little difficult taking in all that he had said. There, once again, was plausibility. I knew what I needed to ask to dispel doubt.

"Is there a grotto down by the cave? Last thing I remember was going into it before coming to back up here."

He caught me looking and the slightest of flinches crosses his face. A strange resignation of fear. On one hand, I was a screaming crazy lady in his house. On the other, I may have touched upon something he didn't want me to know.

"No, no grotto. Just a cave straight to the sea."

Convenient. These chemicals or pollutants or whatever they were could have starved my brain of oxygen or caused all sorts of weird things as they crossed the blood brain barrier. Yet, they were all explained away so easily. I give him a weak smile which he returns in kind.

"Thank you for your hospitality. I do apologize for all the trouble I have caused you over this time. Is there some way I can repay you?"

"Oh, no need for that. Just happy I was able to help."

"Alright, well where are we?"

"Well the Chawapitasimek carried you all the way to Perth. A bit of a wonder you came out as well as you did. I'm assuming you came from quite a ways."

"Brisby-Ulverscroft."

"My word, quite a ways indeed. I gathered you took a nasty spill in and were carried off?"

"I was evading my would be captors."

"Don't tell me that bastard Sardinetin was after you."

Normally, I think I would have looked up in surprise as just how far that persons reputation had spread. Yet, in this moment, a different kind of unexpectedness hit me. These lines were rehearsed. And he knew they sounded rehearsed.

"Well, seems you are feeling good enough to be off."

"But where will I go?"

"Just go wherever you feel. Every way is the right way."

Away I go. Into other corners and other strange places. I chase after what may make this world stranger and stranger. Fear keeps me going forward and fear makes me recede. Time doesn't pass uniformally for me any more. Fatigue soaks into every pore and my is taken by madness. I know others won't see it. I am merely a husk, a shell, a wraith. Besides, insanity is quite a personal business. It is one thing to bear partial witness, it is another to be a fine acquaintance of it.

He was right, you know. Every way is the right way. I can't be bothered to sit and fiddle and twiddle when there is knowledge that must be gained, and it can be gained anywhere and everywhere. Just not quite everywhere or anywhere though. That's why I am where I am.

It pierces the heavens with steel and glass and is filled to the brim with light after light, standing as a monument to productivity and style. Pockmarked with the bustling of business and intrigue. On a floor near the top there is an art gallery, and I am attending the function. As far as I can tell, it is held over several floors, something a bit amusing to me but at least it makes things a little more fun. Several looks of pity come my way as I make my way around the works. I must look frail.

Call the elevator. Board it. I am alone. No one else to bother me with idle chit chat. I get to be unseen in peace. The chime dings and the doors open.

Numerous chairs and music stands litter the floor, in circles and circles and yet more circles. At the center, is a rather healthy anemone. It is a friend I think, although I wonder how it could be so healthy in such a small tank with no sign of a way for it to be fed. Perhaps the installation did proper research to take care of it.

Sifting through the chairs and the stands I start to see several flutes of abnormal configuration held at each station. Everything is pointing to the anemone. It is central. It is nuclear.

I touch the glass. I can feel how tired we both are. How rest would be welcome, a true rest, not just a minor nap or two. A sensation starts to build and I am flowing from one thing to the next, thoughts appearing and disappearing. Matters not of my own made my own and I get the nagging sensation that my tentacles need a good stretch after being in this glass box all night.

My hair stands up, and my tentacles raise. We are always being watched.

I am you, and what I see is me. And it is in this reflection, through the eyes of aberration, that a glimpse forms. A fleeting glimpse if there ever was one, of an omnipotent and tireless voyeur. This is what maintained the state of waking, and this was what was felt all those times ago.

There is no escape. The ways are shut. There are no angles. There are no keys. There is but a part to play and it will be played. They demand it for they are watching.

Drowsiness begins to take me, and the hands return, scraping their way beneath every tendon, every nerve, every bit of perception that has been made to possess. The flutes might be heard now, they're going to get us out. Please, get us out.