The Visitor

Sounds and shapes and colors and feelings.

Swirling, writhing.

Beckoning, begging.

Fear, anger, sorrow.

Harmony.

I shoot up, heaving short, raspy breaths. My eyes dart around the dark room, but little can be seen.

...

...little?

The room is not quite pitch black, though it certainly should be. Fuzzy shapes take form through what should be perfect dark. I reach for my shotgun, which had been left lying against the bed.

My hand swipes through air, it's gone. 

Hazy confusion twists to panic as I try to make sense of the murky shapes around me. The room remains hazy, just dark enough to blur everything into unclear shapes. My breathing quickens, shallow and sharp.

I reach under my pillow for my knife.

Its. Gone. Too.

I clamber out of the bed in a frenzy, my hands fumbling along the floor, hoping the gun merely fell over.

Then something catches my eye.

Light. Yellow light spills out from just under the doorframe. 

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The light remains, still and steady, a warm, vibrant, golden light. The panic momentarily gives way to a strange pull in my chest. I can't stop staring at it.

That's impossible, what the hell is causing that light?

In a trance, I stumble towards the door, fingers wrapping around the metal doorknob. The softest of sounds can be heard from the other side, it feels calm. My pounding heart feels far away as I twist the smooth handle.

The door slides open.

A gentle breeze sweeps through an endless field of golden wheat, rows upon rows swaying in unison, like waves rolling across a quiet lake. 

Above, the sky is a contrast of pale blue and swirling cloud, their edges tinged with purples and reds. An orange sun rests low on the horizon, its light spills out across the landscape, painting every plant in hues of amber.

The sound of the wheat is hypnotic, a rhythmic rustle as calm, gentle wind whisks through the stalks. Cicadas sing through the tranquil scene, in the distance, a single birds chirp can be heard.

It's the most beautiful thing I've seen in months, maybe years. I stand in awe of the scene before me, It's nostalgic, and vaguely familiar. I'm almost sure I've imagined this place before.

But no warmth greets my skin, no scent fills my nose. It's as if I have merely walked into a painting, and nothing more.

Yet it's calm. So very calm.

The thought brings me no trouble, no rising panic or clawing confusion. I simply accept the scene as it is. 

The ground beneath is soft as I step out onto it, my bare feet sinking slightly into the earth. The swaying wheat seems to part in my wake, brushing against my legs. I hold out my hand, touching the course stalks as I slowly pass them.

"how long has it been?" The thought loops endlessly in my head.

I stop and close my eyes, letting the scene move around me as I stand in silence. The sound of cicadas seems foreign to me now, the chirp of birds I've nearly forgotten. 

It's tranquility, and it reminds me of the past.

For the first time here I am unsettled. I've had no time or place to think about it, and I've never wanted to anyway. The days have been an endless mess of stress and struggle, no room for "thought" or "contemplation".

But now I've been given a little piece of the past, And the guilt is already beginning to return. 

Flickers of memories return to me. I push them away, as I always do. But this place... this calm... it makes it harder to keep them buried.

The wheat sways around me. Indifferent to what I've done.

But my mind is taken off the matter. The cicadas end their hum, the birds no longer chirp, a presence is felt behind me.

I spin around to find the room has disappeared, replaced by more field. There's... nothing? No... not quite. Theres a haze where the room once stood, like the heat over a fire. I walk closer to it, slowly circling the strange phenomenon. 

A shifting, shimmering space stands before me, just barely noticeable. The space through it is visible, but slightly distorted, like a warped pane of glass.

As I circle the strange haze, studying its shimmering form, it begins to change.

The space shifts and contracts, folding inward on itself like a collapsing star. Each fold pulls it tighter, more compact, the haze growing denser with every motion.

Until it becomes a shape, a small, fuzzy, grey mass suspended in the air.

I stand frozen, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Then, without warning, the mass explodes outward, shooting in five jagged directions. It stretches and pulls, twisting unnaturally, shifting like liquid and smoke combined.

Until at last, it settles, and the figure of a man stands before me.

Although I can't quite call it that.

It's about the shape of a man, but that's where the similarities end. Its entire body is composed of a shifting, shimmering gray, blurry and indistinct. Its edges writhe and ripple as though actively avoiding my gaze.

Light goes straight through, no shadows are cast on the other side. Its presence feels alien, and even as I directly look at it, I can't quite picture its form in my head. Its surface constantly folds over itself, like an endlessly moving kaleidoscope.

Hardened gut instinct speaks to me- I stand before absolute authority.

The area around its "head" begins to swirl, then shimmer, then shake. Within the shifting mass, forms begin to take place.

Colors and shapes flicker across its face, appearing briefly before vanishing and reappearing elsewhere. But they aren't features, they're more like images. the shapes are projected onto its face, flat and unbending, hovering off its shifting curves.

With each disappearance and reappearance, the images take on more structure, more weight. The distortions slow, and at last, dozens of faint, flickering mouths litter its face.

One by one, the mouths begin to move.

All that comes out are hushed whispers, slowly growing in volume, layering atop one another, getting louder and sharper, yet impossible to make out.

A thousand languages I've never known. A thousand voices I've never heard

They all converge to one.

"be not afraid"

And just like that, the fog lifts.

The eerie calm vanishes with those words, stripped from me in an instant. I can feel my body. My pulse pounds in my ears, my chest tightens. Had it not before? My hands tremble at my sides.

I no longer feel like I'm dreaming, I feel awake. Wide awake. 

but before I can think about it, it speaks again.

"You have felled a beast in its becoming"

I wait for more to be said, but nothing comes. After a second of hesitation, I respond.

"...Excuse me?"

"What you have undone was not yet whole"

"You have killed that which would have eclipsed you"

No more comes. It does not move.

My mind scrambles, trying to make sense of its words. But I don't have to think long.

Its obvious, really.

I swallow hard, voice catching as I speak. "The... the thing I shot earlier? Thats what it was?"

Silent approval settles onto me, despite its lack of movement I know this for a fact. As if I can physically feel the weight of its approval, its recognition.

It speaks again

"Its life acted as a gate to my own, its death acted as a key."

"I am here through your doing"

hoo-boy, if I thought I felt something before, I sure as hell feel it now.

I am swept up in what I can only describe as gratitude, so strong and intense it knocks the breath from me, my knees near buckling.

This is not human gratitude. It does not soothe, it consumes. It does not thank, it claims. 

It almost hurts.

The thing speaks again as I sputter and struggle under its weight.

"You have buried grief. You have swallowed guilt. this is why you live"

"He who came before did not"

My mind flickers to the gnawing, still twitching corpse fused to the bottom of the mound, gently clutching an empty pistol in his left hand...

I see him again, not as a dead man, but as something I could have been.

I feel nauseous all over again, this time with an added flicker of fear.

I stand myself upright, struggling to compose myself as I heave deep, uneven breaths.

"Why are you here? why are you telling me this?" I manage to sputter out in-between gasps.

No response, It stands motionless save for the shifting of its form.

Its many voices and endless tongues press at the edges of my mind, softly slipping by like whispers bleeding through thin walls

"You are not long for this world"

My breath stills for just a moment, my body tensing up.

"You have drawn their gaze. The young are not taken lightly"

A knot forms in my stomach as its words settle in my chest.

It speaks again.

"Your defenses are near undone"

My breath catches. My stomach twists. My mouth drops open, but no words come, just a hollow, shaky exhale.

before I can even think, my mouth moves on its own.

"…oh shit."

The words spill out, quiet and shaky.

I stare at the thing, heart pounding in my chest, expecting, hoping this is some awful joke. A meaningless dream.

But it's not. Of course it's not!

I clench my teeth. Get it together.

As I struggle to process its words, it does something it has yet to do, it moves. 

I'm stopped in my tracks, rising panic comes to a screeching halt as I focus on its moving arm. 

Its left arm moves upward through the air, but the motion is all wrong, neither smooth nor rigid. It extends until pointing forward, then stops, fingers unfurling.

Like before, the space around its hand shifts and shimmers, before rippling an object into being.

I stand and stare, frozen in place.

My shotgun.

My 12 gauge side-by-side double barrel shotgun, the exact one I've carried all this time is clutched by the chamber in its hand, presented towards me.

I hesitantly take a step forward, then another, I know what it wants.

I slowly hold my hands out, and softly take the shotgun into my grasp.

Fingers slide against smooth and checkered wood, index resting instinctually upon the trigger guard, left thumb pressing into the cool metal. Its weighty mass feels just right in my hands.

It lowers its arm as I take a few steps back.

in the distance, dark storm clouds begin to rise.

The next thing it says to me is alarmingly human.

"They're coming to get you, Marcus"

My eyes shoot open, gasping loudly as I jerk upright, chest raggedly heaving. My hands are wrapped around something... familiar.

The realization comes quick, I'm holding my shotgun.

That was no mere dream, and I need to move.

I fumble around for my headlamp in a panicked frenzy, missing twice before my hand grazes cool plastic. I snatch it up, flicking the switch with shaking fingers, aged batteries cast a dim glow across the room as I pull it over my head.

The room seems... fine.

Everything is where it's meant to be, but I've no time to check. I grab my knife from under the pillow, sliding it into the sheath on my belt. My boots are just barely damp, but I pay it no mind, forcing my feet into them.

I don't have time for anything else.

The moment my right boot is on, I bolt for the door, yanking away the chair and fumbling with the lock. My fingers tingling with adrenaline, heart pounding through my chest.

Okay, okay, I'm gonna have to search the house, Ill head for doors and windows first, or would that be too risky? should I just hold the stairs? I don't know if anything's inside yet.

My light settles outside the door, and I freeze.

There are eyes at the end of the hallway.

I'm too late.

.