The Apparition in the Cellar

For months, the mice, roaches and rats have kept me company. I’ve learned to floss with an amalgamation of rodent hair and critter legs in order to keep them from chewing through my face at night. It was on the eve of Hallowed Saints that I parlayed with a harlot of the sin-stained town whose name is of little import. Like the siren I would soon discover her to be, she opened my wallet to a shower of drink I could scarcely refuse, especially when admiring the length of her skirt, or lack thereof. Last I recall, we stumbled down into a well-to-do neighborhood, where she lured me into this home. I recall the faces of children, other adults and strange animals. In my inebriation, I thought it a ruse and partook in more sip. Finding my folly at the base of the bottle, I tried to make my way to the woman’s chambers. I, in my most honest state, could do naught, but consent despite lacking the actual capability to do so, you understand. I remember her face. The beauty that had lured me into this sinking ship had faded. Sunken eyes, withered, wrinkled cheeks and the ghastly image of death peered into my soul. The sight faded from my eyes as I heard a most nefarious cackle.

“Three is one. Two is none. One is done. The score! The score! The score!” a raspy, screeching voice wailed with childlike enthusiasm. Even in my state, I could feel a darkness I could yet not comprehend. Something so plainly awful that even the raw flesh of vermin is small price to pay for the prospect that I may yet escape this place. From the small windows in the edges where the ceiling meets the wall, I surmise, or at least by now feel confident enough to claim, that I am in a basement. Sleeping on twisted mannequins, made grotesque by years of neglect, I have survived enough evening to lose count. The snow piles against the windows. Yes, it must be winter. My name, if I could remember, would be one befitting one such as myself. One of travelers to this new world. Nary a thought of my life flashes through my mind save for that face. That face that launched a thousand ships and brought me to the depths of this one which continues to sink.

For months, the mice, roaches and rodents have kept me company. I’ve learned to floss with an amalgamation of rodent hair and critter legs in order to keep them from chewing through my face at night. It was on the eve of Hallowed Saints that I parlayed with a harlot of the sin stained town whose name is of little import. Like the siren I would soon discover her to be, she opened my wallet to a shower of drink I could scarcely refuse, especially when admiring the length of her skirt, or lack thereof. Last I recall, we stumbled down into a well-to-do neighborhood, where she lured me into this home. I recall the faces of children, other adults and strange animals. In my inebriation, I thought it a ruse and partook in more sip. Finding my folly at the base of the bottle, I tried to make my way to the woman’s chambers. I, in my most honest state, could do naught, but consent despite lacking the actual capability to do so, you understand. I remember her face. The beauty that had lured me into this sinking ship had faded. Sunken eyes, withered, wrinkled cheeks and the ghastly image of death peered into my soul. The sight faded from my eyes as I heard a most nefarious cackle.

I must remember. Madness does not consume a man. A man consumes madness. In the lateness of the season, there is hope. Someone will find me. Someone will know me. Someone will remember me.

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