October 4th, 1922
It’s the forth night in as many nights that I’ve woken up to the taste of my own sweat. Once again it’s that same dream that haunts me; once again I see the same haunting visage. The Isle in the centre of an eerily calm sea; it’s black spires like a thorny wound cutting into the body of white rock.
October 11th, 1922
A week has passed but my dreams show no sign of decreasing. If anything, the dreams are more coherent now; they’re more vivid. I feel more than see now; the Isle abrupt and stark against the waveless ocean and the smooth white cliffs. I feel it’s wind pull at me, drawing me in, leaving me dancing on its currents like a lifeless marionette. With each breath the Isle whispers to me in a voice of indiscernible age or gender, but clearly laced with undertones of malice and condescension. “I slumber” It tells me. “Join me” It demands. I know, in truth, the Isle itself does not speak, but it’s caged inhabitant does. What It looks like though, I can’t describe. In truth, I’ve realised that it’s when I try to picture this entity that my body shakes itself awake; my subconscious so disturbed by its image, disassociated as it is with our own reality. I know that by following the voice, across the wind and ocean, and by laying eyes on It that I can wake myself from the dream. There is little salvation there, though, for the horror It causes leaves both my body and mind more exhausted; I awake with sodden sheets clinging to my sweating body and my mind confused, disrupted and stretched out of proportion.
October 16th, 1922
The Isle again. The Isle every single night. It never leaves. It never lets me sleep. I feel it linger behind my waking thoughts; curiosity turned obsession. The voice of its inhabitant haunts me, commands me, invites me. Without listening I hear both man and woman, adult and child in those awful, patterned words; the many villainies of that voice. “I slumber” It tells me. “Join me” It demands. Though simple sounding, Its words lack real meaning and what It wants from me I can’t determine. It calls me closer, only for me to wake. It invades my thoughts with invitations, only to make me fearful of return. I don’t think it truly understands me. I think I am almost as mysterious to It as It is to me. Even so, I wish for Its visitation no longer. Only through sheer exhaustion do I unwillingly sleep, if I can even still call it such. There’s no comfort there, no rest. I feel broken. I can no longer cope.
October 24th, 1922
Whether through frequency induced familiarity or through the rekindling of some long lying and primitive memories, I know the Isle intimately now. I realise It is no longer just a dream. It is as real as my mortal flesh. Reluctance has vanished, and I visit each night. When the pillow cradles my heavy head I embark for the Isle and Its master. It still speaks to me, Its words unchanged, and, whilst Its form is still as incomprehensible as my first sighting, my body no longer rejects Its image. In fact, the combined chorus of Its many-voiced whisper calms me, as if a hypnotic lullaby willing peaceful sleep. I know not what truly sparked this change of mind, all I know is that the Isle has returned some missing part of me, something necessary, something addicting. I am no longer real when I wake, this world, though tangible in our human hands, is less real to me after each day. I crave my sleep, I crave my slumber. I could lie in bed for all eternity if It would allow me.
October 31st, 1922
I slumber. Join me.
After Yesterdays quite serious Halloween Blog Post, I thought today would be a good time to put up some fiction. This is part of Janes Microfiction Challenge over on her blog and, I’ve got to say, I absolutely loved this muse. It filled my mind with all kinds of imaginings but, in the end, something Lovecraftian won out. Hope you enjoy!