“The ocean is a desert, with its life underground, and a perfect disguise above.” Dewy Bunnell, “Horse With No Name,” 1971
The rain continued to fall in an unrelenting torrent, a never-ending symphony of despair that seemed to wash away all hope. Rhyolite News reporter James Henderson huddled in his study, his heart racing as he clutched his shotgun and revolver like a lifeline against the encroaching darkness.
He had just sent an email to everyone on his contact list explaining the peril he found himself in before gulping down a mouthful of whiskey when the awful crashing sound of his front door splintering into his living room came.
“Come and get me, you rotten fish-smelling fiends!” he challenged.
Like rabid creatures, they had breached his home, faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods as they whispered secrets that were too sinister for mortal ears. Only Margaret Sinclair, his trusted copy editor, stood among them, face bare, her voice carrying a chilling warning.
“You have delved too deeply into matters beyond your ken, mortal,” she said. “You will not escape our grasp.”
Cray Montgomery, the Rhyolite City Council Chair, loomed behind her, his eyes ablaze with fanatic madness. He was nothing more than a vessel for the ancient and terrible entities that lurked in the shadows, waiting to consume anyone who dared to defy them.
As the hooded figures closed around him, James felt his resolve falter. He raised his weapons, but he knew deep down that they would be useless against the eldritch forces that had taken hold of his once-trusted colleagues.
“We are but vessels for the will of the ancient ones,” Montgomery intoned, his voice resonating with an unearthly finality. “You, dear James, are but a pawn in a cosmic game far beyond your comprehension.”
The adherents’ whispers rose to a frenzied crescendo, and James could make out the words of their prayers to Cthulhu.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn,” they chanted, their voices carrying a malice that made James’s blood go cold.
James felt his courage waver as the fanatics advanced, their horry forms shifting and contorting in ways that defied comprehension. The darkness seemed to press in on him from all sides, suffocating him with a sense of hopelessness and dread.
He fired his revolver, hoping against hope that they would somehow make a difference, but it was all in vain. The devotees were impervious to mortal harm, their bodies undulating like serpents as they closed in on him.
Desperation clawed at James’s chest as he realized the futility of his efforts. He was a fleeting shadow in the grand tapestry of a shattered existence, and the eldritch beings that lurked beyond the veil of sanity would consume him like all those who had come before him.
As the hooded ones closed in around him, their whispered incantations threatening to tear his soul asunder, James knew his fate, bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught, his weapons raised in a final gesture of defiance against the unknowable forces that loomed over him like ancient gods of yore.