Afraid, confused, of this I knew to be true. Mad? No, not mad. Knowing the truth of what lays in the shadows that haunt us in the night does not make one mad. For I have seen the grotesque horrors that lay hidden within the confines of Cathay’s field cemetery, and now know that madness is nothing more than a brief escape from the true abyss of reality.
I had always been fascinated as to why a person, or persons, would desire a need for a miniature castle to secure nothing more than the decaying remains of their self and loved ones. Thoughts of exotic treasures and priceless heirlooms were conjured up in the nearby realms of my dreams, until my fascination drove me to begin planning the exploration of a number of crypts for myself, to receive closure if nothing else.
My first few ventures led me to believe that my fantasies were nothing more than just that, fantasies produced by a mind deluded with the promises of grandeur and riches, but left with nothing but the ravaged remains of a succession of greedy generations. That was until I was walking towards the Morris family crypt one November night as the clouds sheltered the world from the stars and moonlight above.
The cemetery was empty, still and devoid of the usual noise that could be heard from the passing cars on the roads nearby. Shadows wandered the aisles between the gravestones and swallowed all that lingered within.
The air carried a bitter chill that stung the skin, and when I neared the centre of the cemetery, acutely aware of the hollowness around me, a whisper could be heard dancing upon the dead. I was unable to decipher what the whispers spoke of, but followed its direction of origin until I was lead to the Morris family crypt ahead, where the faint whispers could be heard coming from inside.
I moved closer and pried the door open with the crowbar I had hidden in my jacket sleeve. I could now hear that the words being spoken seemed to pulsate in volume from underground, down a set of narrow stone steps that led to a tomb with the acrid smell of decaying leaf matter and the cold damp earth.
I stepped down timidly as sincere excitement ushered me forward, momentarily overpowering the sheer terror of the unknown that made me question my actions and caused my arms to shake and knees to buckle weakly as I took my final steps into the tomb. There I froze with fear as what I saw before me could not be conceived by the still timid imagination of mankind.
The whispers I had heard in the cemetery above now violently shrieked through the cavernous tomb that was being used to conceal a mysterious collection of the strange and otherworldly. Voodoo objects and long forgotten tribal artifacts were scattered amongst the remains of countless limbless human bodies.
The torsos and loose limbs appeared fresh despite their vicious mutilations, and upon further inspection, I could see that the point where their limbs had been removed had been sewn closed. Still the voices screamed at me as a set of engravings that were alien to me began to glow on the tomb walls, followed soon after by the illumination of what appeared to be a small glass cell containing what has haunted my psyche since that very moment.
The shrieks stopped as the grotesque object inside the cell seemed to pulsate in rhythm with the swaying of the root like tentacles that spread from its upper half. They seemed to stare without the possession of eyes, and appeared as though they were reaching out towards the glowing engravings on the walls. The tentacles sprung out from what appeared to be a human brain, levitating with the appearance of being alive, solely separate from any further remains of the human body.
The human remains that could be seen discarded upon the moss covered floor began to move feebly, groaning as they began to crawl in my direction, seemingly guided by the brain and its tentacles despite not being physically connected.
I continued to remain where I stood, petrified, despite their advances, not daring to move any closer to the levitating organ on the far side of the room, also too afraid to turn my back towards it and make my escape. Silence seemed to have lingered heavy for some time, how long had it been in reality? I cannot recall, but the silence was eventually broken by the hollow toned voice that flooded this grave of the peculiar.
The voice seemed to originate from the mouth-less brain, and of what it spoke, I wish to never speak for I will surely be diagnosed as mad. Having heard the words spoken, my vision turned black and the horrors had hidden.
I woke up in my home the following morning, an empty bottle of whiskey and Tramadol pills on the table beside me. Unable to remember how I had returned home, i began to question the events of the night before. I didn’t need to ponder for long, because as I entered the lounge, a trail of the most crimson of reds could be seen across the carpeted floor, and there in the middle of the room was the confirmation.
A message from the dead and dying, a limbless torso with its wounds sewn shut.