Once More Among the Ashes

A man finds himself on a strange street, in a stranger state of mind. Inspired by The Music of Erich Zann by HP Lovecraft.

It is an early Wednesday morning in November. The air is both cold and wet. My nostrils flare as I pick-up the earthly scent on the breeze. This place was end of the line, a waste of time. I constantly huff and sigh. I’m sure as s**t that I have made a mistake coming here. I have become anxious with worry, worsening my own nervous condition through impudence.

“Welcome to absolute nothing, smack dab in the middle of bum-f**k nowhere.”

I joked to myself. I did it a lot, but I wasn’t very good at it. The cowardly frost retreated at the first sign of sun. There was still a layer of broken, gray ice covering the dirty streets. The sight was bleak today as it has been the entire last two weeks here. The dreary unkempt street was not much on the eyes. It was a place where the sum was no greater than its parts. It was, evidently, a place of many secrets. Thanks to the lack of hospitality, I had so far found myself with no information in regards to my extensive report and in that, the sole reason I am here in this place.  It could simply be the language barrier, but I don’t think that’s the whole problem. There is a certain fear in the air"I noticed it not long after I first arrived. This strange, little, hushed community seems to be trying very hard to ignore something which I can only imagine to be connected with my purpose here.

The coffee I had made hours earlier had gone cold in my hand. I had forgotten about it on the walk"again. My mind was distant. The tiredness I have been trying to avoid has found me once more. It’s a gripping malaise that cannot be placed. The grim lethargy takes from me my desire, my passion. It’s a tired depression that leaves me defeated and cynical. Such as I am, the day already feels impossibly long. The old streets choke together now as I approach my destination. The old wooden houses had become rotten over many, many years of poor upkeep. All of the buildings had the strange appearance of being built in somewhat of a hurry. It could be seen in the asymmetry of the architecture. The doors all sloped and jutted. There were loose nails and untrimmed boards. It’s barely afternoon but there are shadows at my feet. My heels click hurriedly on the cracked and damaged cobblestone. The acoustic of rushed footsteps make me sad and nostalgic of something I would not mention now and so I will change the subject.

The air is foul here. It harkens to some yet unrevealed fact pertaining to the misery of this place. I often breathe in deeply, with the anticipation that I will be met with the fresh palette cleanse of a November gust. And yet, as was now just the case, I am occasionally met with something else altogether. I can’t seem to get the taste out of my mouth now. As much as I would like to ignore it, I believe it might relate somehow to my purpose here"this ancient, frozen wasteland of rotten wood.

I have almost arrived at our office on the Rue D'auseil. I still find the sight of the winding, steep street quite damning. It’s a good thing that I’m still clutching this old mug. I wash out the bad sensations with the tepid coffee. It’s still that same f*****g smell. Where is it coming from? I’ll have to come back here with what’s her name later on, I guess. She’s probably waiting for me now.

Maybe I’ll walk just a little slower and appreciate this fucked-up place. This ominous, quiet lane holds a roguish, wraithlike quality to it. It’s hard to place, a hole in my memory. My destination is at the top of the steep hill in the first-floor of the tallest building. It’s an old apartment flat, long ago abandoned by the sparse oddities that once inhabited it, mostly scholars, musicians and the like.

The tendrils of wood and metal grow closer together overhead; more sinister with every step I take. There is an ever prevalent eldritch madness in the air"swirling around my head in some rudimentary rhythm I cannot place. But, there was music also. Though after a moment, it would be gone; everything festered together on the Rue D’auseil. In my time here not once have I glimpsed the bright spark of humanity above my head in any of those dead homes. The weight rests on my heart. Above me, the decrepit habitations rot. The water-logged beams have become bloated, discoloured and unattractive.

Upon the sunken husk of the frame itself there is naught left of adornment but the dingy tatters of what once had been drapes. The flecks of scrap flutter sadly against their cast-iron frames. They were houses of neglect and destitution, the lot of them. I find it odd that the windows had been barred all the way to the top floor.

The towering, anorexic prisons would be entirely uncared for if not the reinforced bars on all of the windows and doors. The sagging, tetanus-ridden corpse of the decrepit houses nearly grazed my cheek as I neared the perch on the hill. When I arrive at our safehouse, I need to walk at a slight angle to get-up the squat, steep stair-case. To say the street narrowed its entire focus upon my temporary housing would not be out of line. The design was ludicrous, begging for some forced relation to what we would consider logic. No, I have no words of kindness for the twisted architect of the Rue D’Auseil. I did not like the place at all. Every time I tried to focus on something I would find that it is not quite as it should be. The foundations creaked around me.

There was no love in those homes"no faith, no joy.  It was written all over them, clear as the dead winter sky, so gray and infinite above. Here I am again, at the bent and knotted door. The cold frost from my breath pushes against the closed door and is swallowed by the heavy, dense wood.

I’m in for another day of work in this terrible place. I always try placating myself as best I can before I open the door.

“Woah, you look like s**t.”

“Morning to you too…”

I walk right past by what’s her name, staring into the circle of unfiltered grounds at the bottom of my thermos as I walk down through the well-polished and decorated hall towards my office. What’s her name was still two steps behind me like some sort of Terrier. She’s talking to me now, again, still.

Whatever.

I make eye contact, but everything else is white noise. Her mouth moves but there is no sound. That might not be accurate though. Perhaps, there is only sound. It is noise that surrounds me, drowning me anew each day I wake up. I am present, but I am not really here"I haven’t been for a long time. I walked past what’s her name; the sound of her voice was cut-off abruptly by my office door closing. The room is spinning around me, under my feet. It has come again. As disorienting as it is, it’s hard to close my eyes"the thing inside is even more nauseating. I feel my breath being forced out of me. It’s happening again. My body is being pulled to the floor by some artificial gravity"some intangible construct. I manage to lock the door to keep her from finding me like this. It’s too late though. I am so weak"stretched out against the smooth, beautiful hardwood. For a moment, I hear the music from the street once more. It always happens like this. There are flutes and drums in the darkness. The sinister dream that commanded of me the utmost urgency was close at hand, it always follows the other signs. But there was one left that I had not yet witnessed, it would come soon.

I could not lift myself from the floor now if I tried. As predicted the beautiful strange colours arrive"and with them, those tortured sounds from the dead plane of space. The cyclical revelation occurred now, as it always did. It was brought on by the strange colours rhythmically pulsing in their mystical prism full of such wonder and terror.

I accept the prism as it has accepted me.