Old tongues whispered, gingerly moving in tomb-dry mouths, dead languages spilling forth in a surrusation. Their absent-eyed – literally absent, just sockets, skeletal, sunk-back in rotten-flesh faces – meanderings begun to take shape, to take form, their feet tracing arcane patterns in the dust, shuffling shoggoth dancing.
Their voices grew stronger – long aeons passed in that cramped corridor, long aeons measured in microseconds, shadow-voiced creatures gaining strength – the skin relatives finding one another in the darkness, cooing and whistling, their voices growing stronger with each breath – that I am forced to take, oh God, trying, trying, desperately not to breath, they can hear me, they can hear me. They can’t.
The walls close in, slick-wet-screaming.
Slick-wet-screaming, voices-whip-and-whisper, shadows stroke the back of my neck.
Bumble bees kiss flower beds, and the wind whispers – flesh-blood-bones-marrow-suck-slurp.
The crooners surround me, violent promises spill out, not-spoken, but still heard.
The fields open around me, and the sun is hot. Too hot. It splits on the horizon, cracking egg-yolk flooding my mind.
I too thirst.