@WizzyCat gives us our next patiently awaited entry
Doctor Jimbo awoke when his clock released its screeching cry. He scrambled into his clothes, grabbed his lantern and cloak, and shuddered out into the frigid morning. The winds howled at a volume that would make hurricanes jealous, and Jimbo could do nothing against the shredding ice being rocketed into his face by said winds. Nonetheless, he persevered and made the hour-long journey into town. Today was undoubtedly the predicted Winter Eclipse Mega Solstice, and the Dogs will certainly be the hungriest they’d ever been.
In fact, the creeping, jet black night shuddered, revealing the hideous plan, the intent of the Dogs for this night of infinity. Soft whimpering could be heard, coming from beyond Jimbo’s small hemisphere of lantern-light. This was the defeated sound of all the nearby Spirits, having broken down after being touched by a Dog’s aura.
As Jimbo moved, he began to notice the tortured whispers of the trees, each fiber crying out quietly for someone to save them from the suffering. They sounded almost like the faintest screaming of a child. Jimbo chanced upon a tree within the radius of his light, and was able to nurse it back to some health with the kerosene glow. The screaming turned to a soft giggling, and finally to a quiet content. The light allowed for a burst of photosynthetic strength. Unfortunately, Jimbo had to hurry.
As he approached the town, he began to hear raspy, sobbing breaths. He arrived at the bonfire which marked the entrance, and saw Scruffy, the town cat, lying at the crackling border of its light. His breathing was labored. Jimbo walked up, slowly and carefully, suspicions fully formed. Hisses and growls danced about the edge of his hearing. Not Scruffy’s. The night seemed awfully close, and the Dogs along with it. The lantern’s glow had indeed diminished: Jimbo was running out of time. He touched Scruffy’s soft flank, felt the slow, thudding, uneven pulse, and acknowledged the worst. His own dog had been the first victim of the Dogs. His son, playing with George, that delightful pug, had been the next victim. Jimbo remembered the first sight of them, lying there, eye sockets exposed and bleeding, crying at the lack of their previous occupants. When the Last Deal had been made, the creators had been hasty, and as a result, dozens of years later, Jimbo had to see his son’s ears leak the first ectoplasm, a greyish-white, viscous goo. Ghost honey…
Scruffy let out the weakest caterwaul possible, sad and defeated. He was already in the final stages, with nothing left to do but beg.
Jimbo hadn’t been able to give his son the sweet release. At least he could give it to someone, or something, now. Scruffy had been a good cat, the sweetest boy. This was well deserved.
Jimbo withdrew a Soulblade, and slit the little tortoiseshell sweetheart’s throat. The raspy sobs cut off with the slightest sigh.
Tears crawled up to the corners of Jimbo’s eyes, recalling how similarly his son had been lying on the ground, moaning and sobbing at the bone-shattering, brain-frying pain. He remembered how he had tried to heal his son with every remedy and medicine he had available, and how it only seemed to make the pain worse, until he finally succumbed, after months of suffering.
Jimbo became aware of a Dog approaching, its grim, nearly invisible silhouette lurking in the corner of his right eye. Its horrific jaw was the only visible feature, any chance of a head and neck replaced with that monumental maw, full of at least 10 rows of tiny teeth that resembled the closest thing biology could get to a chainsaw, but far more frightful than any tool man could devise. Every other element of its body was the perfect shade of darkness—burying it within the night, hiding things that could only be worse than the mouth. Indeed, it had a presence that could be felt, a sizable presence, one that intruded upon the very threshold of Jimbo’s mind and soul.
Jimbo repressed a scream. He’d never seen a Dog that looked like it was smiling. It seemed to be smiling, or as close to smiling that a vertical mouth could reach. This tiny gesture was more expressive than any words could be, betraying thoughts of destruction and an abyssal fate worse than death.
Then it disappeared.
The presence, however, closed in. It crawled onto the lantern-light, an invisible net of negativity that Jimbo could feel with every cell. It wrapped around, trapping him in the light; the light continued to decay inwards, the presence forcing itself ever closer to Jimbo’s shrinking form.
This overwhelming evil kept toying with Jimbo, inching closer, ever and ever nearer, slinking along the outskirts of the lantern’s influence like some cruel hyena.
“Jimbo, is that you?” a concerned voice echoed from somewhere to Jimbo’s back right. His mind churned furiously as it tried to identify the voice.
As another tentacle of evil closed in, so close it nearly snatched onto Jimbo’s outstretched foot, he stirred, scooting backwards across the snow—which was so cold it burned—towards Henry’s voice.
Henry must’ve heard the shuffling, as his tone shifted, becoming more firm and confident. He yelled, “Come to my voice, keep your lantern held tight!”
Jimbo hurried, standing up and retreating towards his ally. The presence seemed to give pursuit, and every nerve in Jimbo’s body turned to flight, his leg muscles firing, sending him across the sub zero blizzard with unexpected speed.
He finally reached the source of the voice, Henry, who stood in the doorway of his castle, known as Malbork Manor. Jimbo flew inside and shut the door with as much haste as he could muster.
He squeaked out his typical line, “Who’s hurt?”
Henry de Maleiv replied, “Well, interestingly enough, no one’s even gotten touched. The Dogs haven’t bothered us at all.”
“Well, have we gathered the Royals?”
“Yes, and the Moor as well. I know you don’t like him, but you also said that we need our most able fighters, and he is, unfortunately, just that. Anyway, now is no time for petty squabbles, the Father Lamp is dying.”
“The Father Lamp is dying?” Jimbo repeated, terror continuing to creep in. Without light…
“Yes, follow me.”
Henry led the way into a large dining-hall chamber. The majestic mahogany table, fit for 30, was covered with a hefty layer of dust, accumulated over generations of neglect. Behind the plush, velvety chair at the head of the table stood the Father Lamp. This imposing construct, akin to a coffin of riveted metal plates, was home to one of the very few Enchanted Flames remaining.
“Mind if I take a closer look?” Jimbo asked.
Henry simply nodded, and stepped out of the room. Not many had the stomach for a “closer look”.
Henry opened the chamber where the flame licked away at the walls with an unnatural hunger; it screeched at him.
Sound reverberated through every corner of Jimbo’s mind, like a violin mating with a guitar while being strangled.
this plane can no longer feed me
With this justification given, its voice the mental equivalent of nails aggressively meeting a chalkboard, the flame disappeared. A sizzle, and a miniscule column of smoke billowed.
“Just come to the table already, we’re all waiting.”
The voice snapped Jimbo out of a trance; he rushed out of the rapidly cooling chamber. Without the demonic flame, it somehow felt less safe. Jimbo couldn’t shake the presence, still wrapped tight around him. He’d barely processed Henry’s words before experience carried him into the Resistance Room. To call it War would be foolish…
The Royals were all gathered, in their shining armor, with their various weapons of ruthless steel. The Moor was there as well, armor similar, but lacking all forms of color.
Each member but Jimbo had already donned his disturbing but necessary garment. The Mask of Sun, with thick lenses to shield the eyes, and a beak added on as camouflage. The leather was a bright yellow, the color of the Sun, repulsive to even the strongest of foes: it was the opposite of camouflage.
Suddenly, the earth rumbled. Quills and inkwells alike flew off the table, and most of the Royals flew off their feet, Jimbo included. When he got up, he saw a flaming circle under the ceiling: a portal.
All the Spirits remaining in the house cried out, a unified squeak, and were silenced.
A pitch-black orb floated down out of the portal.
hello my friends
“It’s a monster, kill it!” Henry cried out. The Royals lifted their weapons, then dropped them again. Jimbo stared at Henry’s eye sockets, emptied in a millisecond. The bodies slumped, each one with a grim thud. Blood pooled.
how rude
“What do you want?” Jimbo gulped.
Pain
It was given.
Synopsis:
After the last deal is signed, the dawn of humanity comes at the snouts of the dangerous dogs. As the father lantern flickers, those that bask in its light learn that dealings with the unknown often end in death.
Things I enjoyed:
-Excellent racism with the use of the word ‘Moor’, classic lovecraftian stuff there. Iago, I feel, would be proud.
-The development of the dogs throughout the story was very well done. We are teased information about them slowly, so that the noun we are familiar with has almost a completely opposite meaning by the end of the extract. This juxtaposition between the familiar and unfamiliar is a classic horror trope in games (think of literally any indie game for kids in that last ten years), and is used here to great effect.
-Personally this story was a winner for me because it gives some information but not enough, of them all this is the one that has stuck with me the longest due to how plain weird it is.
Things to improve:
-The narrative of this story is a little all over the place, it has what I believe Atwood describes as a ‘feminine coital rhythm’ in that it slowly builds up in speed before ending abruptly. Thankfully this story isn’t The Handmaid’s tale, but both have the same abrupt climax which I believe could be improved with more action occurring earlier.
-There are some minor tense things which are weird, and you use the word wind twice in one sentence. Beside this SPAG is excellent in the story.
