Tiny Horror

The noise started when I was twelve. It wasn’t a voice, not at first; it was a hum, a vibration in the teeth, the sound of a thousand worms turning in the soil. It was the Visitor reaching through the veil, its cold fingers tracing the lines of my young ribs, commanding me to find the heat beneath the surface. It smelled of ancient iron. It smelled of the wet earth beneath the shed. The neighbor’s collie was a sack of warm, trusting lies, but the Visitor saw only the clockwork. It wagged its tail and I felt the hum grow into a roar. The Visitor’s hand was on my shoulder, heavy as lead, forcing the metal into the soft, yielding throat. I was merely the hand; the Visitor was the intent.

The blade was a gift from the shadows. It felt like home. I remember the silk tension of the skin, the way it hesitated before it gave way to the truth. Red. A sudden, holy fountain of red. I didn't see a dog; I saw the clockwork of the universe. I saw the pulsing tubes, the ivory rafters of the ribs, the wet, frantic engine that makes the world move. The Visitor knelt in the dirt beside me, its hollow eyes reflecting the crimson spray, drinking in the first offering it had demanded of me. I sat in the dark and I listened to the hum turn into a song of approval. I was no longer a child. I was a vessel. I was a map. I was the one who knows how to open the world because the Visitor showed me the way.

The tale continues...