The Children of Leviathan

Heavy breathing, her fists clenched behind her back against the door, her legs shaking.

Eyes still shut, she took a long deep breath.

Relief.

She had just marginally been salvaged from the double wrath of the strange limbo-like wilderness, in a two-folded manifestation of the imminent Electric storm and the pack of crones prowling outside. Yet somehow she did not feel entirely safe even behind the bolted door. A false sense of security grew in the pit of her stomach. She could not be sure whether the insides of this House on the Hill held no hostility, no grudges against her, and did not seek to harm her soul. In fact, she was more certain than not that the House was long awaiting her arrival in order to begin its foul play. However, she could not afford to be overcome with panic and so she tried to calm herself by thinking, “confront each fear as it comes, not before”.

But was it fear indeed? Fear of what? Of the unknown, fear of something real, tanglible or of something abstract, of an apparition alive only in her mind? Was it fear of feeling helpless and alone, fear of feeling powerless and lost? Fear of pain, of loss, of damnation? How deep did the rabbit hole go? How much worse could her world be?She still did not know which questions were right to ask, and this scared her more than any demons or traps Leviathan placed in her path.

As she stood with her back up against the door, she opened her eyes for the first time since being inside and tried to focus on the space surrounding her. It was of massive proportions compared to the size of the House from the outside. From the exterior the House appeared to be a worn cottage, yet its interior seemed like a lordly mansion that had once seen glorious days and joyous nights.
In any case, now it was predictably bare. It was as though a living soul had not set foot in that place for centuries. There was thick Gray dust covering every surface, almost every orifice, and the furniture was covered in white sheets that had gone mouldy from the frequent storming. The air was stale, and dense and cold. Very cold. Her breath left trails of warm smoke as she breathed out.

 In and out.   

There was a monumental marble staircase opposite the entrance where she stood. It had two sets of stairs, one on the right leading up, and one on the left, leading down, which encompassed the centre piece of the landing that proudly featured a grand floor clock. It was monstrously big and went all the way up to the top of the staircase with a proportionally large face with intricate numbers and cogs. In the silence that prevailed, she could hear its ticking: Tick. Tock. It echoed across the room steadily, yet the hands were not moving. They were positively static. How peculiar. Meekly she hoped this would be the least aberrant thing she would meet whilst being there, although she already knew that to believe it would be a comforting lie. 

To her right was a large drawing room, predominantly made of wood. The booming fireplace, large enough to walk into, was indubitably the pivotal piece of the room, surrounded by the most generous library she had ever seen, built into the walls. Above the lacquered mantelpiece hung, covered in cloth, only what she could assume to be a painting. Oh how she wished she could get a fire started and warm her bones! She had not got used to the temperature yet, and the sky rumbled loudly as she approached the room to examine it more closely. As she walked away from the marble floor and into the wooden flooring of the room to the right, it creaked under her foot and she instantly remained still, listening.

Nothing.

Relief.

Armchairs, table and sofa were all covered, or so she presumed that it was those that were hiding away under the dewy sheets. A bulky chandelier graced the high-pitched ceiling, with half melted candles around its circumference and brimming with cobwebs. Closer to the fireplace she went with determination, as if it were fully ablaze, in a futile attempt to feel the illusion of some warmth. She lifted the corner of the cloth that covered the painting above. She discovered it was not a painting. It was a mirror she saw, and without a second thought she threw the cloth down and revealed it. Thunder permeated the house and the windows shook in their cases and the mirror shone bright, a cold silver flash filling the space and she covered her eyes at the sting of the the sudden light.
Eventually she glanced up: there was no reflection of herself in the glass, yet, in the far right corner she could see the pack of crones dancing in the distance, in the outdoor setting, in a circle and the Gray Wolf in the middle. She turned, disregarding her dread and defying her dismay of the abhorrent flesh thirsty crones, in exchange for a glimpse of the him; but there was nothing and no one there. It had been a figment of her imagination, or the games of the House had already started.
Facing the mirror once again, she still saw no reflection of herself. She waved at it and swayed before it, but it did not respond by imitating her. Her eyes fell on the craftsmanship of the frame; it was made of metal, ornamented with curved lines and geometric shapes. She touched one shape that reminded her of a Fleur de Lis and then took a step back as the patterns began to move and take the form of many Fleurs strangling one another. She covered the mirror again and regretted having disturbed its slumber.

Suddenly, she heard the pitter-patter of footsteps coming from the floor above; and laughter, of children, innocent giggles and playful shouting. It made her feel incredibly uneasy as she imagined a group of children sharing moments of merriment in this strange house. It cannot be true or genuine, it cannot be real. There must be a catch, there must be a reason why the House played such charades on her, and she was bound to find out.
Up the right staircase she strode, and as her left hand touched the black marble bannister, she felt the sensation on her fingers changing, from dry to wet, from smooth to scaly, but always cold; cold as stone. Looking down at it was no longer cold stone but cold flesh instead, black scaly snake flesh that squirmed and wriggled under her touch. She gasped as her eyes followed the body of the Basilisk up to its raised head, a triangular source of lethal venom. His eye were slits of fiery orange, and his gaze mesmerized her as she continued to go up the marble steps slowly, coaxed by the soft hissing of the King of Serpents. As she reached the top, he snapped his slithering tail like a whip and her consciousness returned to the cold reality that she had momentarily lapsed from.

Without looking back at him, she entered a dark corridor that had wooden doors on either side. The series of doors seemed unending and she walked without purpose, gradually getting used to the dim light, until she felt a strong sense of destination to approach a specific one. "29" was the number on the door in intricate metal design, similar to the Fleur de Lis' on the mirror in the drawing room. It clicked open before her hand touched the door knob, and kept opening as she moved forward to reveal a classroom. Desks, chairs, and school bags were all in place, as if the children had just gone out to the playground at break time. On the blackboard "A a, B b, C c..." and on the teacher's desk a bell and a bitten apple; a sweet sticky taste filled her mouth.  

The classroom joined the room next door with an internal door, yet in contrast to the one before this one was fully made of metal. It was marked "Exams in Progress" and the lettering on it were not curved, but jagged. She heard the laughter again, coming from beyond the door. This time the door did no magically open telepathically, she had to push hard as the children's laughter grew louder. She managed to get it open although snagging her left wrist at the steel latch in her effort, and bright blood trickled down her hand and onto her gown.
Entering, she was faced with a sight that turned her blood so thick, she thought the cut would not drip anymore. Rows of children lying on examination tables, wired up to measuring devices, in a comatose condition, yet breathing. No laughter, no giggles.

Tick. Tock: The heartbeats of the Children of Leviathan echoed in harmony.

Tick. Tock: They all lay motionless and still, feeding the Beast their dreams.

Tick. Tock: Ticking away to the rhythm of the great big clock downstairs...

She could not bear this any longer; acid tears burned her eyes but as she was about to turn and exit, she heard a screech like nails scraping the blackboard. She shuddered. She left the exam room in a state of shock and horror. "A a, B b, C c..." had been erased from the board. In its place was written in child-like handwriting "Lux ex Tenebris" (1). She ran out into the dark corridor.
The Basilisk had not moved, and was still where she had left him, looking wickedly smug and disdainfully pleased with himself. He started to hiss euphorically as she approached and she avoided his stare as she felt more and more vulnerable drawing closer to him. Her soul felt utterly exposed reaching the top to the stairs and she heard his evil whisper "Facilis descensus Averni" (2), ordering her to descend. She then remembered that there was a second part to the staircase, this time leading down.


(1) Light through Darkness
(2) The descent to Hell is easy
 

The House on the Hill.

Voltaire - To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth.

Her hands dug deep into the moist and dense soil. It had only just stopped raining, and the ground was so wet, she could feel the water drench her clothes at her knees as she sat on all fours at the base of the hill. The great tree that she had taken refuge under, to sit out yet another Electric Storm, had wept; its old bark had cracked and tears of resin had trickled down to its base. She had an awkward sense that it was tears of resentment, and rushed to her feet. She touched its resentful resin, and it burned to her touch. Sucking on her sore finger she thought she heard a voice: a child’s voice, coming from the base of the tree, no, from beneath the roots, rising up and reverberating through the bark's cracks and resin pus.

“Hurry”.

The old voices had stopped since she had crossed the river. This voice was of a new order, sounding innocent yet compelling enough for her to pay serious heed. She knew she had no place there, amidst the strange nature, the twisted nature of past, of longing, of yearning, there, deep in the Forest of Forever. She knew it even before she decided to cross beyond the silver river and penetrate the unknown North, but the Gray Wolf left her little choice. He had seized her thoughts, entering her mind at his will, during the dead of the night, and she often could see through his auric eyes, images of frustration, of chase, of want, of desire. She would wake each time thirsty and hungry to venture into the Forest to seek the questions, to which she already knew the answers.

“Hurry, follow the Moon”.

She was still under the weeping tree, lost in thought, remembering the eyes, the golden blazing eyes, and her legs felt like lead. Heavy and almost comatose.

“Hurry, follow the Moon to the House”.

She looked up, between the tree’s thick canopy. She could not see the Moon. She needed to see its command, through its celestial smirk, its behest. With great effort, she took three steps forward placing herself barely into the clearing. The familiar moon shone down on her in all its lunar glory and showed her the path that started at the bottom of the hill.
She felt the bell of urgency ringing through her body and so started to trek up the slope. In some un-human way, she had reached the top with astonishing speed. She did not even need to catch her breath, and she realized to her surprise that at the top of that hill there was no breeze, not even the slightest sensation of wind, she could hardly feel the air around her. It was as if she was in a vacuum and nothing moved. Feeling queasy, she looked down from the precipice at which she stood; she could see no ground, no weeping tree, only a most peculiar thick fog that made her shiver as she could see eerie dark figures dancing in it, hissing and whispering. She did not recall any fog when she was at the bottom of the hill. In fact the air was perfectly clear as she had looked up at the Moon only a little while ago.
The nature around her at the top of the hill was dead; lifeless, livid and diseased. She looked up at the Moon again for council to see that its shade had darkened into a silvery crimson, and she felt uneasy. She must hurry.

She turned and faced away from the foggy abyss below, and in her sight lay what she could gather as being the back of the House on the Hill.
Unlike the contrasting state of the nature in the scenery before her, the House was very much alive. The walls shook and the windows fell into a sudden tremor at each step she took closer to it. She lay still for a while, completely uncertain as to what she was to do. Where was the Gray Wolf? Why was the Moon testing her? What was the Question? The Question now was whether she would approach with boldness in her heart or face the Crimson Moon’s wrath. The Electric Storm would soon come and there was no weeping tree to protect her from its strike. She dared not plunge into the fathomless forlorn nothingness that took the place of what was the bottom of the Hill. Now it appeared that she had no choice.
Biting her lip she took forceful strides towards the House, and as she drew nearer, its image swayed and evaporated at every orifice as vicious vines strangled it from every angle. And so it shook and shuddered, window panes clashing and tiles from the roof tumbling down. Yet she held her pace with tears in her throat and walked round its eastern wing to get a better look for the entrance. On the eastern side, the House seemed to have changed. It was steady, unmoving, and clean. Still old but clean and it reminded her of a time when houses like that were the norm to be surrounding her, and the people she once knew having made their homes and lives therein. She felt wistful and the sentiment built up inside her choking in her throat once again. She kept going until she could see the other face of the House that boasted the main entrance.
 
The sky started to scorch. The lighting started to well up in the clouds. The Moon’s veins pulsated bloody red and its previous silver glow had paled and waned as the impending Electric Storm was imminent. A chant; a deep trance-like chant filled her ears in a tongue she did not recognize, in voices she could not discern and immediately her mind raced back to the torment of nightfall, again and again when the voices came to taunt her, to drive her insane. Amidst the shrewd dry shrubbery in front of the House there appeared silhouettes that slowly took form. For a second she cringed at the idea that these were none other than the eerie figures of the fog below. Then she saw clearly. She saw women, old, wild, weathered women, about half-a-dozen, some scantily clad, others stark naked in a revelry of deep mantra, moving in a wide circle, holding hands. She watched them as they chanted louder and louder until her ears bled at the abominations being uttered. Though she could not comprehend, her guts quivered at the waking of something evil. Something she should not become witness to. With her back against the wall of the House, she moved sideways, quickly and silently, closer to the main door. Her feet were still on the barren ground and she dreaded the moment she had to step onto the old wooden floorboards of the porch. Would they crack under her tread? Would it break their wicked transfixion, and if it did, would they swoop like a flock of rabid harpies on her, under the auspices of the Blood Moon? And the question that burned her skull time and time again: where was the Gray Wolf?

She must take the chance, the Storm was upon them, and she begged in her heart of hearts that the door to the House would open at first attempt. It must! Two steps on the crackling floorboards, she closed her eyes shut and twisted the door knob. It latched open at once and she pushed her weight against its dated resistance to leverage its alliance. Chilling shrieks and resonating thunder belted as she slammed it shut behind her, her eyes still tightly closed. She was inside.

The Forest of Forever

So she walked a whisper like walk, weightless and wistful, as her white gown trailed behind her frail footsteps. Her head hung low and the usual sea of thoughts filled her mind. It was no wonder she could not hear the sound of her feet or the rustling of leaves; voices muffled and reverberant, a multitude of shrieks and woes, of secrets and confessions. For the all of eternity this would be her price to pay, in the conscious awake part of her being, in penitence, in restlessness, in the prison of her mind for the crime she had been condemned of. According to her impious fate, now, as it was written in the Scrolls of the Stars, she roamed the Forest of Forever, searching for questions she only knew the answers to. ‘Balance’. She sought the equilibrium of Balance.

The voices were never discernible. The voices were always there. Day in, day out. Her dreams were her only haven. She solaced in the revelry of her subconscious escapades where she would be free from fear, free from frustration. ‘In Somnii, Veritas. Per Somnii, Libertas.’ She had no other place to go than to retreat to her core at nightfall, in the midst of the Forest and seek redemption for her scarred soul. 

On a typical day she would hear four, all caught up in argument and in contradiction and debate on a variety of issues and amongst each other. On good days she would hear conversations of three and their vehement ramblings on intense sentiment, on hopeless romantic antics, and on the power of unrequited love. This had an acute comic element which she found endearing and actually barely dared to admit that she enjoyed. She would always smile on those days. On the worst days however, there would be only two voices, one of a victim and one of a tormentor. The victim would often change, but the tormentor was the same. The tormentor’s voice was the only one that occasionally haunted her subconscious being. The high-pitched shrill voice that made her eyes stream with tears and her hands feel as cold as ice, was always the same. On the bad days and on the bad nights.

After the bad days, the bad nights ensued taking the form of nightmares beyond precedent, images of torture and suffering, sounds of shrieking metal and scorched skin in Winter's baneful time. Cries of lament and fear and grief, yells of yearning and screams begging for forgiveness and mercy that never came. Why was there such wickedness in this world? Was it necessary to experience the pain and anguish as a way of identifying the good and virtuous and happy? She felt tired and exhausted.  She wanted all of this to go away. She wanted everything to be pure and pristine and primeval for a change. However, she had long ago ceased to question the reasons behind this faltering fate of hers. In Limbo, each suffered their own anguish for their sins of Yore.

Yet, there was a way. 

In the days that followed the bad nights a reassuring calm prevailed in her mind; absolute silence. These were the days she treasured, when she could hear the rattling of the leaves by the gentle gust of the wind, the ripples of the water at the riverbank as she ran her fingers on its glassy surface while gazing at her reflection. These were the few days when she remembered what it was like for her pale face to be graced by the warm rays of sun light, when she could hear not internal sounds, but the sounds of the Forest of Forever. Home to others apart from herself, on these days she longed for contact with sparrows and robins, with deer and fox, but most of all, with the Gray Wolf. There was something familiar about him which she yet could not place as he kept his distance and observed her from afar, from the other side of the river. She had not crossed the river. Not once.  Not yet. Could it be that there lay the questions, to which she knew the answers? 

She had not dared because the North side of the river was a most unwelcoming land. A land of great wilderness and dense woodland, where the trees were the tallest she had ever laid eyes on and the rough landscape was barren and at the peak of the mountains above the trees' canopy, almost lunar. She feared that was the place the voices in her head emanated from as she felt a jolt of alarm each time she approached the silver waters that separated the two banks. But perhaps, perhaps, she should make an attempt to cross. There is nothing left for her on this side, no questions to answer or codes to decipher, no balance to be restored.  

The key to the equilibrium lay over there, she was now convinced. 

And yes, for the first time on the next full moon, she would cross.