WHISPER IN THE DARK PART ONE

To visit Yuggoth would drive any weak man mad—yet I am going there.

WAKE UP IN AN airplane I don’t remember boarding next to the window. The sun reflecting off the cloud tops hurts my eyes, so I close the shutter and try to gather my thoughts. After a time, I recognize the small, wood-trimmed cabin and white leather recliners as familiar, and a thought later, realize this is my Falcon 8x, though the destination of the flight is lost to me.

The attendant approaches from the galley, perhaps having observed the way my emotional distress is manifesting physically. See: my left leg bucking to a racing beat. See: my hands feverishly grinding together. See: my lower lip being chewed between my teeth.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” he asks in a sweet, caring southern accent with a subtle femininity and a rising inflection. His sympathetic smile is delicate and understanding, and his perfectly maintained eyebrows lift to accentuate his concern.

Liam, his name I now recall, then says, “You look a little pale.”

My eyes dart forward as my mind tries to piece together the chain events that brought me to this moment. The last thing I recall was showering in the locker room after my match against Aurora. On the table in front of me, ice cubes melt in a rocks glass next to a bottle of Grey Goose harboring only a final, lonely drink in its otherwise vacant belly. That explains the shifting, delayed focus of my vision and the ache compressing my skull and radiating down my neck.

My eyes lift to see his concerned gaze and I say, “I’m…fine.” The words lumber out of me, chased with a drunkard’s slur.

“I wonder if you’ve changed your mind,” he says in a way that communicates apprehension.

“About what?”

“Water, ma’am. May I get you a Berg? Or perhaps you’d prefer sparkling? We’re still thirty minutes from Copenhagen.”

Copenhagen? Why the fuck am I going to Copenhagen?

Something drags my eyes back to the bottle, to the three fingers of vodka resting at the bottom calling to me like a siren song. Thoughts drift into a relentless crave, a raw emptiness that gnaws at me from the inside. Fuck this mother fucker for asking me, again, after I already made it crystal fucking clear that I DON’T WANT WATER… or maybe I do. Maybe I should tell him to bring a whole bottle of Perrier so I can shove it up his fucking—

“No,” I say suddenly, in such a way that causes him to flinch. I lift my uneasy head and try to smile. “Yes, I mean. Maybe some gatorade? And Advil. Please.”

He nods then stands straight. “Of course. Be right back!”

After he leaves, I grab my phone off the table. The lock screen shows the date is February 27, a day after Warzone, and the time according to the GPS is 4:32 p.m. I must’ve left Detroit in the middle of the night. A ding precedes an iMessage notification from Mari. It reads:

Hola mi amor! I hope the flight is going well! Let me know when you land!

I quickly type a reply, thankful for spell check in these trying times. Still otw. This is going to sound strange but did I tell you why I’m going to Copenhagen? My thumb moves to hit send but I’m interrupted by Liam returning with a small lemon lime gatorade and a travel size ibuprofen.

I lower my phone to hide the screen as he takes the time to open each bottle for me. “Here you go, ma’am. Is there anything further I can assist you with?”

He’s leaning ever so slightly over to avoid talking down to me. Good boy. I’ve trained him well. Always subservient. Always demure. The Valentino suit is tailored expertly to my specifications to accentuate his broad shoulders in contrast to his thin, almost waifish waistline. He’s close to me, close enough that his restrained cologne teases me with every breath.

Well, hello there, turbulence. This flight just got a lot more interesting. A heat radiates between my legs in tune with the subharmonic rumble of the jet’s engines. Unbidden to me my thighs do part, ever-so-slightly, to welcome the warm rush of arousal as my nails dig into the armrests.

“Now that you mention it,” I say, my voice a sultry purr laced with suggestion, “there is something I could use your help with.” My intimate tone lingers like a lover’s caress as I meet his eyes with purpose and hold them a breath longer than necessary.

I lean ever so closer to him, urged on by the faint pink hue blossoming on his cheeks. My lips unlock, and words flutter out of me without thought or restraint.

“Vous savez, on dit que les turbulences peuvent être… imprévisibles. Je ne serais pas contre un peu de… stabilité.”

He straightens at once but his response is disappointing. “Ma’am, I didn’t know you can speak French,” he says with a playful smack to my shoulder.

“I don’t,” I say with a disjointed look, but I know who does. The Other Yelena known as Desi. That lustful fucking bitch is exerting her fucking influence. That must be why I don’t remember getting on the plane. They’ve been taking turns gang-banging my mind. The fifth of Grey Goose must have been Gula’s idea and now I have to endure this fucking headache.

Liam’s eyes move back and forth in search of an excuse to depart. He finds one. “Yes, well, I have to go prepare the galley for landing.” He’s walking away now, but calls back, “if you need anything else, just holler!”

In my head, Desi’s voice says in a low, sex-laced moan, Il doit être gai.

“I don’t fucking speak French!” I shout out loud.

Liam spins around and throws his hands up. “Okay, ma’am!” he says with a defensive huff before turning to scurry off shaking his head, thinking who knows what about me. My attention returns to my phone and Mari. I hit send and then reach for the Advil. I knock back three or four tablets then chase it down with several drinks of gatorade.

Her reply brings me back to my phone. I sit the bottle down and bring up the message. Confusion seizes my thoughts in a tight grip, holding them still for the encroaching dread which follows when I read the text.

Mari: Hola mi amor! I hope the flight is going well! Let me know when you land!

Me: It’s wonderful! I wish you were here with me. I’ll take lots of pictures! 😘

The phone slips from my hand as a sudden panic overwhelms me, sharpening my breath into a strangled gasp and spurring my heart into a frantic beat. My mind in desperation grasps too tightly on the collapsing reality, only to feel sanity slip through its fingers like sand. In the struggle to maintain control, my thoughts return to Copenhagen.

The last time I was in Copenhagen was at the airport after my father passed away at his home in Fredensborg. A castle, actually. It’s been in the family for generations. My brother tried to sell it. Many interested buyers visited the grounds but never was a single offer made. From what I was told, many left as quickly as they had arrived, as if something unseen was driving them away. Nathan eventually gave up trying to sell it. He fired all the staff and had it boarded up.

That’s it. That’s where they want me to go. To dad’s house.

“Enough of that,” a terrible, creaking voice says from the seat across from me. I look and behold, The Entity. Somehow, in this well-lit cabin, It appears doused in shadow, hardly more than a rough copy of my own silhouette, but Its eyes—Its eyes are yellow lights burning in the darkness, each a shimmering, illuminated nightmare.

Air is sucking in and out of my chest, fear clawing my mouth open and peeling back my eyelids. The shadow splits open like torn stitches, revealing a festering wound of a mouth with sharp, angled teeth protruding from slick, black gums.

“Sleep now, child. Sleep.”

LURRING LIGHTS STREAK ACROSS a dark canvas in fleeting, abstract patterns. A low, rhythmic rumble vibrates through me. Not unpleasant but… insistent.

Tiredness, like I've never felt before, hangs on me like wet clothes, weighing me down and making even the simplest of undertakings require more effort to commit. I manage to press my mind forward and rouse myself awake to see a rain-slick road rushing at me. I react, jerking a steering wheel left, then right, causing the vehicle to skid across uneven pavement.

“What the fuck!” I scream, only gaining control of the vehicle a heartbeat before derailing off road into a tree or down a gulch. I pull the car over onto the shoulder and bring it to a harsh stop.

Gentle white noise fills my ears with the pitter-patter of raindrops, the measured whoosh of wipers, and the low hum of the engine. I must have fallen asleep driving… but I don’t even remember landing let alone getting in a car.

“I did what you wanted,” I say, speaking to them. “I moved forward in the tournament. They saw what I’m capable of. You promised to leave me alone.”

My head moves forward to rest on the steering wheel and wait for an answer, but none come, and in their place panic forms a cold knot in my tightening chest. I sit straight and decide to drive back to the airport. My hand reaches for the gear stick and my foot moves to the gas pedal.

Then I see it.

On the passenger seat, where I’m certain there was nothing before, now sits an antique music box. Hexagonal, ornate, and crafted from dark, polished wood and inlaid with gold that shimmer’s faintly in the light. The lid is open and inside a tiny ballerina slowly turns, her porcelain face painted with an unsettling smile. A delicate, crystalline melody chimes, one note at a time and achingly slow.

The more I listen, the further into the melody I’m drawn, and the more I’m alleviated of the fear and panic that harassed me awake. My apprehension gradually turns to disinterest, and the world around me fades like an old photograph.

Y AWAKENING IS NOT GENTLE nor gradual, but violent and sudden, ripped away like the shroud of Christ after the resurrection. The revelation thrusts me from cold, silent nonexistence and into a world unfolding around me, like the inside of blown glass taking shape. An influx of startling awareness rushes to overwhelm my senses to nauseating effect. The drumming of rain on the canopy… the earthly scent of wet soil… the taste of bile in the back of my throat… the chilling caress of the cool, winter air… a sprawling immensity that dominates all perception.

This is Skyggeholm Slot. My father’s castle. It’s even more imposing at night, beneath this cloud-choked starless tapestry of smeared charcoal strokes. The foundation juts out of the muddy earth like bleached bone riddled with fissures of decay, then ascends sharply into a commanding structure crawling with twisted vines, black moss and rotting lichen.

At the end of a weed-infested gravel courtyard, a three story keep sprawls across the breadth of my vision with rows of boarded up windows, a steeply pitched red roof, and two wings which extend forward, enclosing the courtyard in semidarkness. A central tower looms before me like a square monolith rising to an angled point whose single dark window watches down on me like a lidless eye of unending black.

I want to leave. Whatever reason the Other Yelenas have for dragging me here cannot be for my benefit. I turn around to the car and reach for the door handle but my strength is stolen from me when I hear it again.

The music.

An ill-wind threatens me with the unsettling melody, the same one I heard play from the music box. I recognize it now as the Suite from Swan Lake and it serenades me like a whisper in the dark, with a quiet menace that weakens my backbone.

If I fall back asleep… I may never wake up.

The music fades under the crackle of tree branches and rustling of dying shrubbery. For a moment I am relieved, a moment that shatters into a million pieces when I turn back to the castle to see It.

At the base of the tower, standing before the arched, oaken door is a shadow. A shadow of pure darkness in human form, so black that it absorbs the scant ambient light of the courtyard like a singularity devouring a star. It’s the Entity. I recognize It as I would my own shadow. However, unlike on the plane, I no longer see discernable details in Its inky silhouette, but the eyes… Its sulfurious eyes still burn and from them tendrils of yellow smoke smolder.

It moves aside, not smoothly but notched, like stop-motion. Past it now, the large wooden door releases from the frame and swings inward on groaning hinges. The interior is a void, betraying no detail of what lies within.

Gravel crunches under foot as I cross the courtyard before ascending stone steps that lead to the door. I don’t look directly at the Entity but I hear It clicking, conjuring an image of sharp teeth grinding together. It does not speak words, but nonetheless I feel Its desire urging me inward.

The moment I step through the threshold, lights rise to a soft dim glow buzzing with electricity. The air is cold and stale and carries a strange metallic tang I can’t place. Further I step into the foyer, whose grandeur is now a faded memory choked by years of neglect. The once-opulent chandelier now rests on the floor a wreck of twisted metal and broken glass surrounded by the remains of the collapsed ceiling, blocking access to the grand staircase which is blanketed in plaster and lath. I do not protest, for the foreboding gloom of the upper floors unnerves me.

The Entity appears again, now at the mouth of a hallway tucked under the balcony. Its black, skeletal arm raises like a lever, the joints creaking audibly, and a lone finger extends like a dead branch, ordering me to continue.

This corridor crosses this entire side of the main house. I peer down it, seeing nothing but a black tunnel. I hesitate to enter, turning instead my gaze to the Entity, as if I would receive some level of mercy. It answers with silent insistence and Its finger jabbing in the direction I dread to follow.

Fortunately, the first set of wall lights detect my presence and brighten to a diffused glow, though the light is noticeably muted due to the dusk-caked spiderwebs woven like dirty cotton around the bulbs and fixtures. I journey forward, between walls papered with non-Euclidean geometric patterns and past shut doors I dare not disturb.

At the end of the hallway the Entity meets me in the library, a tall square room with floor to ceiling bookshelves that once housed dad’s collection of first editions and rare out of print books—all sold by Nathan for a pittance of their worth. The Bösendorfer grand piano alone was worth over $100k. He let it go for five.

The Entity has reappeared to the left and Its crooked finger is directing me into the East Wing. This is the oldest part of the house, built in the early 1800s as the primary residence of the Güldencrones, a Danish noble family from which I’m descended. As a child I never ventured past the library because it always felt like something was looking back at me.

Now something is. The Entity stares at me with its eyes burning like headlights but not at the end of the hall. Midway It waits for my approach. With every step the air feels colder and heavier, causing my next foot forward to hesitate, if only slightly, before lifting from the floor.

Then I come face to face with It, close enough that the jagged outline of an unnatural smile surfaces from the coal-scribbled silhouette’s face. “Why am I here?” I ask it in an aggressive tone to counterbalance the fear sweating from my pours reeking of cat piss and desperation.

The shadow’s answer comes not in words, but in a sharp, ratcheting thunk that pulls my eyes to the wall as a rectangular seam reveals the outline of a hidden door. The question of what lies on the other side tempts me with undeniable curiosity. I don’t even look at the Entity before placing my hands on the wall and pushing forward.

The hinges creak and moan as the opening expands to reveal an anteroom so deeply dark that it is barren of all detail. I step forward into the confined enclosure with my heart hammering my ears, so loud I do not hear the door shutting behind me until the lock latches.

I am suffocated in the tenebrosity, inducing panic to rack me with the desire to scream. I do scream, but abruptly without thought, when fire bursts around me from large torches encased in steel frames. The flames saturate the room in heat and billowing light… light that reveals before me a threatening iron door sculpted with grotesque iconography of misshapen faces contorted in silent agony or mad ecstasy engaging in murderous orgies and sexual deviances.

“Go…” the Entity whispers unseen to me, the word lingering into a thin hiss. My eyes move across the disfigured faces to the black handle on the right side. I have no choice. Even if I weren’t afraid of returning to the unconscious prison my desire would compel me to open the door, to learn what my father was hiding behind it, and why the Entity so terribly wishes me to find it.

My hand reaches forward, grasps the handle, and pulls.

All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.