The Statement of S. Belle

by Neoarcad

Rating: teen
Tags: Horror, Scootaloo, Sweetie Belle, Anon, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Mystery
Length: 5476

Of what followed, and of the reason I was found alone and dazed on the edge of the swamp the next morning, I must insist that I know nothing save what I have told you over and over again...

This statement (consisting of several pages, each signed by me) is true to the best of my knowledge and belief. I make it knowing that, if it is tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated in it anything which I know to be false or do not believe to be true.

Dated 05-05-1013

This is a story I wrote four years ago. I penned it all in one fevered session, and though I've not posted it until now, I refuse to edit it in any part at this point. I'm not the same person I was when I wrote it. Please, enjoy- or don't- the lost work of yesteryear.

It was during a trip to Maine that it happened. The quietude and salt air of the little town I stayed in were a boon to my health, and I enjoyed the isolated atmosphere of the hamlet greatly. Not long after my arrival, I chanced to walk through the town's dilapidated, aging streets, on the hunt for interesting bits of architecture and history. I wanted to catch a glimpse of the famous little seaside towns of New England, which are not long for this world if the progress of all-consuming Boston remains unchecked.

After a time, I found myself in front of a house with peeling paint and loose shutters. This was hardly unusual; the thing which caught my attentions was the wraparound porch. It was covered in old, yellowed tomes. I ventured to step up and investigate this queer domicile, and found that it was a used bookstore. As I am a voracious reader, capable of devouring a paperback like an anaconda its prey, my heart leapt with excitement. I spent a time inside, perusing the little shop. It was almost impossible to navigate the building, so full was it of creaking bookshelves loaded with manuscripts of all shapes and sizes. Being as I am six-foot-three with broad shoulders, it was a bit of a challenge to pick my way through the musty stacks. Even the stairs were jammed with books, to the point of being nigh-unusable. Some were relatively recent, but the majority were decades old, and there were a handful which were even older. I acquired a number of first-edition copies of books which I proudly display on my shelves to this day.
But the most important acquisition I made in that odd little shop was a collection of H.P. Lovecraft stories. I'd heard of the man, of course, and read "Call of Cthulhu". But that night, as the howling sea winds buffeted my windowpane in the growing darkness, I read for the first time his tales of quiet horrors lurking in the backcountry of New England. And it was from these tales that I derived the story which now sits before you, begging to be read with all the weight of the years it spent on my hard drive. Consider it a loving and fearful tribute which merely apes the style of the true master; it is not a direct copy of any particular story, but borrows from many. I have tried (and, I hope, succeeded) to make it more than just Lovecraft with ponies. But I've said too much already; enter, dear reader, if your nerves are steeled and your mind is unfrayed. I cannot guarantee the same will remain true for long...

Published 2017-04-11 02:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2017-04-11 02:50:01 UTC

42.306339, -72.535161

I repeat to you, mares and gentlecolts, that your inquisition is fruitless. You may detain me here forever if you like. Confine me, or destroy me, if you must have a victim to propitiate the illusion you call justice. But I can't say more than I have already. Everything I can remember I have told with perfect candor. Nothing has been concealed or changed- and if any part of what I have told you remains dark or vague, it is only because of the cloud that has come over my mind- that cloud, and the nebulous nature of the horrors which brought it upon me.

I don't have the slightest idea where Scootaloo is. I desperately hope that she's passed on to some kind of Elysium, but I can't believe such a place exists, after the things I've seen. It's true that I've been her friend since we were very small. We used to do all sorts of things together, in our youth. Before we got our cutie marks, that is. Not to say we ever had a falling-out; it was simply that we drifted apart for a while. My favored haunts were the dance halls and theatres, while she spent her time flying and training, that sort of thing.

Or so I had thought. But a few months ago, I received a letter from her, like a bolt out of the blue. It was written in a rather animated hoof, and spoke of some kind of research that she wanted my assistance in. She was, I learned, shortly to depart for the northern coast, and she wished to have my company. The destination, ultimately, was that dreadfully old, and mildly infamous, town of Hoofbay. This was itself of course just a few months after the incident there which garnered so much sensational journalism that the true occurrences there might only be divined by speaking directly with a reliable pony, or ponies, who were witness to them. This, the letter intimated, was the purposes of the mission.

And so I found myself in the grip of a warm embrace, centerpiece of a rather more joyous and tearful reunion than I'd previously expected. I had scarcely caught up with her, though, than we found ourselves on a train going north. Having related all my adventures had in her absence, and her having done the same, I proceeded to question her as to the nature of her summons and her motives for travelling so far, to a place that in my mind was not fit for even a brief holiday. My old friend laughed, and proceeded to relate to me a tale that I don't expect any of you to believe in full. Indeed, I didn't completely believe her until I'd seen the evidence; and that has gone wherever Scootaloo herself is.

"Well, it all started with that broken wing." explained my ochre companion, as the scenery outside the window grew progressively foggier. "I couldn't fly anywhere, and so I had to walk. Let me tell you, the city is not an easy place to navigate from ground level! I don't understand how the rest of you can even manage it, to be completely frank. So I took a wrong turn or five, one day, and ended up hopelessly lost. The buildings around me were considerably older and closer together than in the sections of town I'm accustomed to frequenting, and there was hardly a pony in sight. Half the buildings were boarded up, in fact. I-it's not like I was scared or anything, but I didn't want to go into any of those buildings. If I hadn't had to keep my cast dry, I wouldn't even have ventured it when it started to rain. But I didn't want to have to stay out of action any longer than necessary, and- I chose one of the closest houses that wasn't boarded up. I rapped on the door, and it swung open after a short hesitation. The pony living there was an old, wrinkled thing- he must have been at least 90, maybe even older. He had a sort of look in his eye- it's hard to properly describe, Sweetie. It wasn't that he was sizing me up, really... it was almost like he knew all about me before I even opened my mouth.

"So he let me in, and I realized that I'd stumbled upon some kind of bookshop. I'm not exactly an avid reader, but... there wasn't anything else to do until the weather subsided. And I didn't want to be rude. So I looked around through the dishevelled and worm-eaten stacks. The books in that place were ancient, crumbling tomes, the sort of books you'd see in a museum. Some of them might've been from before Nightmare Moon, even! But I only had a couple bits, and I needed them to buy some bread- that was where I'd been going in the first place. But when I got to the back of the shop, there was something that drew me to this one book. It looked like it had been thrown, or maybe even purposefully shoved, behind a bookcase. I almost missed it completely, because the thing had a black wrapping around it. It was only by chance, I guess, that I even saw the thing."

As she spoke, Scootaloo took the selfsame book out of her saddlebag. It had a disquieting appearance, somehow. Its cover was as black as the wrapping that had bound it, and there was a clasp on the side to keep it closed if need be. Maybe it was the black cover, dark as pitch, that did it. There was a symbol, very small, the sort you almost could miss. It wasn't like any kind of symbol I'd seen before, and it had almost a nebulous quality itself. I think it would be hard for me to reproduce it for you, but I could try if you like. No? All right. As I was looking at the item itself, Scootaloo continued her story.

"My first inclination when I saw the thing was to pull it out. Something about it called to me, I guess. So I did. And when I finally got the thing open, I realized I couldn't read any of it. The characters were all completely alien, and they formed distorted patterns that seemed to have little rhyme or reason. I leafed through it, and found nothing legible. But as I went to put it back, a little slip of paper fell out. It looked like it had been torn off of a rather newer piece of paper, and on it was scrawled what looked like a cipher. Remember that one time we tried to get our marks in cryptography? It looked like that. Some of the symbols were translated, and formed a single legible word: 'Traveler'."

At this, she showed me the bit of paper. It was just as she said- the paper looked to be perhaps a hundred years old, as opposed to the book itself, which was much older. On it was the trailing end of some kind of translating formula. The word written there was scrawled in a hasty hoof, as if the author was pressed for time. The formula was torn just below the important segment, which would have permitted us to translate further.

"So intrigued, I purchased the book and went home, bread forgotten. I doubt I could find that bookshop again- I tried a week later, but to no avail. Finding that I couldn't translate anything, I set the book aside and forgot about it. But then I was tearing up an old newspaper to start my fireplace with- there was this one account of the event in Hoofbay. And it mentioned this old manse, high in the wooded hills above, where nopony would dare go. The name of the place was Traveler Manor."

My look of shock, or at least my raised eyebrow, must have proved to her that the correlation was indeed tenuous. But she grinned nonetheless. We would go there, and talk to ponies about the incident. That was all, she assured me. I should have known better- that that wouldn't be the end of it. But I was placated by her assurances. The book and the manor, she reassured, was simply what got her interested. She merely wished to know the whole story, that was all. There would be no danger involved, just a series of interviews with the countryfolk of Hoofbay, and then perhaps we would be able to figure out what had really gone on. Celestia almighty, if that had only been the entirety of it! For what was to come, I assure you, is an experience I would forget in an instant if I were able. But it is seared like a brand into my mind, never to disappear.

Our train reached the little platform at the next town over from Hoofbay, and we disembarked. It would be a short walk to Hoofbay, and would only be a few hours, my companion assured. We obtained a small cart, and, piling our baggage upon it, trotted off into the woods. The walk was pleasant at first. Birds sang, trees rocked gently back and forth in the stiff autumn seabreeze, and our hooves made time on the pavement. It was like a song without words, and happiness and excitement over what we were soon to be uncovering was high in our hearts. I was again in the company of my childhood friend, and it was just like we were fillies again, searching for our talents.

However, after a time, we passed through what seemed like an evil area. I cannot describe it to you, in all honesty, nor explain why it held such a noisome aura. The first indication, I suppose, was when the birds stopped singing. Only the distant, braying caw of a crow broke the still air. Our hooves had ceased to make noise, somehow- the path was still hard-packed earth, but seemed almost dark, like mud, as if it would suck you in if you stood too long in one spot. We hit a canter, I think, by the time the sun began to pierce in thicker lances through the trees.

It took us many hours, but we eventually reached the town. The first signs that we'd reached the area were the ruined crofter-houses and overgrown fields we began to glimpse through the trees. They had lain empty for a long time, judging by the vegetable encroachments. Then the trees gave way to fields, first on one side, then the other. We began to see the occasional distant farmer hauling in his plow. Then the woods to the right became a seaside cliff. It was a pleasant vista that greeted us- or would have been, without the thick fog. The fog banks rolled in off the ocean, and blanketed the countryside in their cloudy embrace, obscuring all but the closest details. Shapes of farmhouses, boulders, and trees loomed out of the grayness, and I drew closer to my ever-fearless friend.

By the time we reached Hoofbay itself, our strength was largely sapped from the trek, and we sought a place to stay first of all. It was too dark and foggy, anyway, to investigate properly, and all the citizens were likely abed. In the failing light, we caught sight of a boarding-house of sorts, by the waterside, right at the entrance to the village proper. The building looked to be leaning a bit, but there were lights burning, and so we approached the door and gave it a couple of sharp raps. After a few moments, the portal swung open, and there before us was revealed an old mare with a none-too-friendly expression that never seemed to soften. We managed to secure the attic room, the only one unoccupied by lodgers according to our host. It was leaky, and the roof sloped to one side; but it served us well enough, I suppose, because Scootaloo had barely removed her saddlebags before she fell asleep on the single iron bedstead with its old mattress and threadbare sheets, topped with a quilt miraculously missing mothholes. I, shrugging, collapsed into slumber beside her, tired by the journey more than I'd cared to admit.

My sleep was not entirely restful, however. There came a creaking of the roof in the middle of the night, and then what I fancied was a tapping at the one tiny window. I couldn't see out of it very well, for the most part, and I assumed it was simply a tree branch in the wind. But the next morning, I found, there was no tree at that window- which made it even harder to explain the series of long, thin shadows, shaped in a vague way like the hand of a dragon, which I glimpsed when the moon briefly sallied forth from behind a cloud.

The next day, we set out early to inquire after the townsponies' accounts of what had happened. They were hard to track down, many being in the fields, and the few we encountered were exceptionally thick and unhelpful, in my mind. They all seemed to be of that slab-like character which can be achieved only through inbreeding, and none would have done well in any kind of grammar school, let alone a proper college. I was raised in a provincial town, and I know the difference between rural and this baser form of ponykind, I like to think. Their stupidity and thick rural tongue notwithstanding, we managed to get some useful information. Evidently, few had been witness to the actual events themselves. There were rumors, of course. Several ponies pointed us in the direction of "Ol' Treb", who evidently was next door to the location of the incident, and caught a glimpse of it.

Ol' Treb, whose full name was evidently "Treble", was indeed very old. He insisted we not use his real name, as "s'too cityloik an' fancy". I concurred, silently. Ol' Treb's account went something like this. He'd been sitting in his rocking chair, around 10 or 11 or maybe 12, when he heard the sound of wood and shingles being smashed and rent. As he tried to ascertain what had occurred, he heard the screams of the victims, and saw the creature alleged to have done the deed as it escaped. It was a horrifying sight, evidently- Ol' Treb was nearly ill upon recalling such things as he saw. Evidently the creature was long and thin, with a slimy appearance, and lanky, horrible limbs. The worst part, though, was the way the creature's hooves moved. They were like snakes, said the aged, degenerate stallion. He clammed up after that, and wouldn't talk about it anymore. I myself shivered, remembering the apparition at the window.

Our next visit was to the crime scene itself. There were still two police ponies there, a mare and a stallion. There was nothing left to be gleaned from the crime scene, they explained, but we still couldn't go in, unfortunately. However, we managed to learn some details of what the townsponies found when they broke down the door. The place had evidently seen a terrible struggle. It was a horrific scene. The family of six had all been slain in gruesome ways. A heavy item, evidently seized up by the culprit through some conveyance, had smashed the skull of the father, while the mother was impaled by a piece of one of the roof-boards, and had apparently died a slower, more painful death. There was still blood on the floor from that, even so long afterwards, and I shudder now as I did then at the sickening thought. But the others, the foals, all died in a curious manner. They had evidently all had their heads sharply twisted, breaking their necks. It was like nothing ever recorded in all the history of murder- because while there were a couple of isolated incidents where a neck was broken with magic, there were marks as if some kind of boa constrictor had seized them about the head and neck.

Armed with this curious information, we retreated back to our rented attic room to plan the next move. We still had no particularly clear picture of what had occurred. I was out of ideas, but Scootaloo was not so easy to deter. She declared that her aim was to find out what had happened, and she hadn't done that- so we weren't done yet. Admittedly, I was loath to spend another night in that horrible place, but I would also be lying if my curiosity hadn't been piqued.

We put our heads together for a time, but could resolve no course of action until Scootaloo remembered that the old crone who had rented us the room had mentioned a reporter from Manehattan was also lodging in town. So we went to the only other lodging-house in Hoofbay, which was on the distant side of the hamlet. It was a similarly dilapidated old house to ours, both enterprises seemingly having resulted from a combination of location and of having spare rooms to rent. Hoofbay, it seemed, once was a more prosperous village, with a string of mansions having been built there around three centuries prior to the return of Nightmare Moon. These ancient, crumbling structures were largely abandoned, save for the two that I have mentioned.

The journalist we had heard of was one Flash Bulb, a photographer. He'd decided to stay on for a while in Hoofbay in the hopes of catching a photograph of the creature, and perhaps even of being present when the beast struck again. The earth pony stallion, a lanky and single-minded fellow, was entirely convinced that such an occurance was inevitable. He told us so many times in our short discussion. He had had no fortune in his quest thus far, but was undeterred, and in any case was occupied by photographing the town and its citizens. Flash Bulb had even set up a little darkroom for developing his images; he showed us more than a few of those as well, being exceedingly proud of his work. I must admit, his stills were rather impressively shot; he was good at his job. Apparently, he had a particular interest in the old buildings. Scootaloo, upon seeing the sheer quantity of images, asked incredulously if there was any structure in Hoofbay that he hadn't captured on film. He admitted that only one had eluded him- the mansion in the hills to the northwest, which he'd been cautioned against visiting alone, and he couldn't get any of the cowardly ponies of Hoofbay to go anywhere near the thing. At that point, Scootaloo got a little spark in her eyes, and I knew there wasn't any force in the world that was going to keep us away from that mansion.

That night was spent in a fitful sleep, for me. A vague ominous feeling had settled over me since the previous day's arrangement to meet at the edge of town at the crack of dawn, and was not helped by the tales of gruesome death and a monster on the loose. The thick, almost black fog that rolled in again a few hours before dusk didn't help in the slightest. And again I was troubled by the vague notion of a branch at the window, though I knew there was none. At the time, I passed it off as merely the result of my nerves; but now I'm not so sure.

In any case, the next morning, Scootaloo dragged me out of bed, excitement written all over her face. It practically bubbled out of her- I doubt she'd even considered why, or what dangers might be involved in our pursuit. Simply the idea of following hot on the heels of a lead was enough to get her blood up. Flash Bulb was waiting for us when we got there, his saddlebags bulging with camera and gear. We headed along the road to the north, through the gradually lifting fog. I was properly frightened, but Scootaloo seemed not to notice my fearful glances towards every errant noise in the fog. The photographer was similarly enthused, although he seemed to express it in a much more subdued manner- Scootaloo was practically unable to stay on the ground.

After a short while, we saw the ancient and weed-choked track which led away to the west, which would bring us to that dreadful house which we thought to be the solution to the mystery. Had I but known! Celestia almighty... As I was saying, we tread the once-cobbled path with care, as it had long since fallen into disrepair. Only the remaining stragglers which once made up a proper bed of stones was evidence of our course. The fog lifted, presently, but a thick cloud layer still kept the sun obscured. As we walked through the wood, the trees seemed to grow thicker and more gnarled over our heads and to our sides, threatening to swallow us. Roots as big around as Flash's barrel invaded the route at places, and there were some trees and limbs that had fallen across the old road at places. It had clearly been abandoned a long time.

A few hours later, I pulled leaves out of my mane as Scootaloo let out a cry of victory.

"There it is, Sweetie! Just like I thought it should look! It's super spooky!" she exclaimed. I applied my hoof to my face, thought about asking why spookiness was her chief concern, and thought better of it. Turning my attention to the mansion itself, I saw immediately why it was spooky. The building was like some kind of Flankenstein's monster, a combination of things. On the upper stories, it was of the same vintage as the other mansions in the town- three centuries or so, maybe a bit older. It was a horrid thing, visually; it looked like it had been built over the course of many years by many builders, resulting in the hodgepodge look. In fact, the lower levels might well have been five hundred years old, while certain additions seemed to sag less, indicating a possible youth in advance of the rest of the building. One feature seemed to be carried throughout, and that was the gables and peaks of the roofline. It was all weathered and neglected, blackened with age, and warped like all wood tends to do after a long time. This conspired to create a terrifying aspect, a sort of organic and beastly appearance, and one with a distinct air of... I suppose it might be best described as "wrongness". That was it. It looked wrong, as if its builders had deliberately defied the laws of nature in some indescribable fashion. Certain angles looked impossible, with lines that offended my senses, as if I somehow knew instinctively the incorrectness of the thing's existence.

I was shaken out of my observatory stupor by the lightning bolt of Flash Bulb's camera. Having taken a photo from a distance, he gathered up his kit and cantered towards the old building. I, recalcitrant, trailed after him, with Scootaloo calling me onwards. They waited for me at the grayed oaken door, which bore frightening ram's head knockers. It turned out to have been barred from inside, curiously enough; but Scootaloo soon entered by a nearby window, which had been shattered, it seemed, long years hence. I noted that there were in fact very few windows; those that existed were chiefly unbroken, surprising considering the age of the place and the tendency for haunted houses to have their panes destroyed by adventurous foals. I recall an incident, in fact, where Scoots and I did that very thing! We were going for our cutie marks in- well, I'm getting sidetracked. Scootaloo lifted the bar, and we were admitted to an ancient foyer of sorts. It was very dark, and I cast a light spell immediately.

The room, now lit for the first time in what must have been ages, seemed to shrink back. It was exactly as it had been left, moldering linens, carpets, and even candelabras intact- a testament, I supposed, to the great fear the villagers had of the place. The cretins would have surely stolen everything remotely of value otherwise. Rats disappeared into the shadows as I entered. A camera flash lit up the room further, revealing several doors.

"All right, let's get exploring!" exclaimed Scootaloo, lighting her electric torch. It was lucky that it was too cramped to fly in that house, else I'd never have kept pace with my orange friend. Flash Bulb brought up the rear, and although he was mostly quiet aside from occasional comments on certain items and rooms, I was mostly alerted to his presence by regular camera flashes.

But despite Scootaloo's enthusiasm, after many hours of searching, we found little. The cellars were curious; there were several small ones, each with one single entrance, rather than one big one. Half of the floor in one was made of what seemed to be extremely old and weather-beaten concrete. They were all full of furniture, barrels, and other things of the sort. There were some vague traces of recent habitation in one or two of the upper rooms, but it might have just been raccoons and the like, for all we knew. There were curious long prints in the dust, but they were nothing like anything any of us had ever seen. No concrete evidence was found anywhere that the monster had made this place its habitation- or even that there was such a creature!

At that point, the three of us made to leave, disheartened; but just as we were walking down the hill, that black fog surged over the trees like a wave. It was too thick even to see my hoof in front of my face; there was no way we could have made it back to town. So instead, we returned to the creaking old mansion, Scootaloo barring the door behind us in frustration. As there was no more exploring to be done, we instead hunted for a place to sleep. None of the upstairs rooms seemed suitable, with holes in the floors, walls, and ceilings, broken windows, and copious numbers of rats. Instead, we made our camp in a sitting room. There were several couches in it, as well as a fireplace, which seemed to be the only one in the entire mansion which still functioned. We brought in some chairs to burn, and soon had a nice roaring blaze to keep us warm and cast flickering lights across the room. There was nothing to do, and I was rather tired, so as Scootaloo and Flash Bulb talked in subdued tones, I drifted off to sleep.

My dreams that night were vivid and terrific. I have had nightmares before, and I have spoken with the Princess of the Night in my sleep; but this experience was removed from either of those. It was as if I was watching a film. I could not move my limbs or feel anything; my other senses were all occupied, however. Somehow I could sense the presence of strange figures all around me, like ghosts, but I could not see them or explain why I knew they were there.

The images I was shown were of a history entirely unknown to me. I saw so many things, but I cannot call them to memory. Only vague ideas persist. I had the distinct impression that these things had once happened, long ago; but to think that this ever had come to pass- it chills me deeper than my bones. There were a thousand great, shining cities, beautiful and terrible in their splendor. I watched them spread across the planet in lines and webs of steel and glass. Then, in an instant, great fires bloomed across the blue and green, consuming the grand spires first. The flames didn't stop until everything was left brown and dry and dead, and then a terrible snow and ice emerged, and consumed the world. And all was dark.

I woke screaming, in a cold sweat. I couldn't explain it to my companions, and so I passed it off as simply my nerves, as always. There was no way I was going to fall asleep again, I reasoned, so I volunteered to take the next watch. They were concerned for me, but agreed. Despite my prior confidence, I found my lids grew heavy after what seemed like an eternity, but was likely only a few hours. I poked and prodded myself to keep awake, even resorting to magic to try and bolster my resolve, but an otherworldly tiredness eventually crept over me, and I slipped away into the embrace of the night.

My second slumber didn't last, however. I was roused by a scream, and awakened to a horrifying scene, half shaded as the fire had died down considerably. Flash Bulb was draped across the couch, and might have been asleep at first glance. His eyes, however, were wide open as if in shock, and those same snake-like marks were on his throat. Scootaloo was shaking him, and I realized that the scream had at some point been taken over from her throat to mine.

At that point, I recall, I was absolutely inconsolable, altering between hopeless and pointless blubbering, and hanging onto my still mostly unflapped orange friend. She had the composure to close his eyes and take me literally under her wing. After a certain time had passed, I was merely sniffling and trying not to look at the corpse. At that point, Scootaloo resolved for us to barricade ourselves in one of the cellars, which each only had one door, and wait until morning when we might try to escape.

We managed to run for it and reach one of the cellars, barricading the door with a couch. Having done so, I finally thought to ask Scootaloo what had happened. She seemed reluctant to divulge the gruesome details, and in any even had not seen very much of anything. However, she spoke of something that matched the descriptions of the creature. It was too long, she said- that was its chief feature. She'd been asleep while it had done the deed, and when she woke and vaguely glimpsed it, she thought it was me- so pale was its slimy skin, devoid of coat, that it matched my whiteness.

If I had but managed to remain awake, that would have solved it. We might have been all right. But I didn't. The ordeal had given me such a fright that I dropped off to sleep, laying there next to Scootaloo, like a foal next to its mother after a nightmare. The last thing I thought before my eyes closed was that the cellar was the curious one with the half-concrete floor.

Scootaloo's hoofstrike was what awoke me. I will never, ever forget that brief moment. Her hoof hit me, and she screamed, and was dragged away from me. There was the beast, in there with us, in that tiny cellar, dragging her away from me. The way it leered at me! Its teeth were yellowed, its hairless skin a pinkish white, as if it hadn't seen the sun in a very long time, its head fringed with brownish, matted hair; that crushed-in face, with a horrific little nose! Its fingers- for that is what they were, I realize, like the fingers of a dragon- were long and bony and thin, and ended in yellowed claws. And it was so long! Its two legs were folded beneath it like a frog's, bent the wrong way, and tipped with stubby, clawed fingers. And it laughed a croaking, hungry laugh, as it dragged away my kicking, fighting, screaming friend, the friend who I shared so much of my life with.

I am ashamed and yet proud somehow that I obeyed her choked scream to flee. There is something magical about the way I managed to escape from that place; I don't remember anything of the flight, anything beyond the thing's bloodshot, staring, hungry eyes. Somehow I made it through those woods, and evidently I fainted shortly after screaming into the constabulary with babbling mad tales of long fingers and slimy, pale skin. But you see, it was hardly my fault; for even if I had not fallen asleep there, it would not have been any use. I had to throw aside the couch to leave that ghastly cellar. Perhaps I might have suspected, from the ancient concrete; it must have been exposed to the elements for centuries.

How could I have known it would come through a hatch in the floor?