Left the Forest Lost Sleep Tight (Part Two)

It was a ratty, big thing, one that had been written halfway through before he had come to town. He had had it for when he could remember the scarce dream, here and there, in the desert of his dreamless nights. This bothered him deeply, as he could remember a time in which he was quite skillful at lucid dreaming, which once broke him from the awfulness of his dull, lifeless practice, but that had waned without warning one day, years ago. They were replaced with an outbreak of nightmares, which were, in turn, caused by anything that frightened him. Dr. Paul was brave during the day, and to some he was even harsh, but at night, he wished he knew someone romantically, so that she could wake him from the awful things.

The dream diary was more of a way to try to keep the fear away from his sleep than to memorize the happy ones, as they simply ceased to happen. If it worked to keep the fear away during the night, he did not know, and he clung to it, hopelessly, like it were his only sanctuary.

He grew to hate the drunkard that had come into his practice on his first day of work, as the human spider had caused him a lack of much sleep, even weeks after hearing about the abomination. In his dream journal there was entry after entry involving pale, scarcely clothed corpses scuttling after him as he walked home past some dark, empty graveyard, or something grabbing one of his ankles from behind him while he tried to ascend the stairs from his empty basement.

It got worse for him, much worse, when he happened to flip through some of the earliest occurrences of his nightmares that he had managed to record, back when he first received the journal. At some point he had described something comprising of a grotesque head that looked entirely broken from its neck, entirely gray skin, and was naked, save for what looked to be like far too loose men's black trousers hanging like elephant's skin from around its waist. He described how it moved, the clicking noise it made as it dashed madly about, only moving quickly when its presence was discovered, and otherwise how it slunk deplorably low to its knees, to its disfigured elbows. Its eyes were the worst, shaped weirdly, almost perfectly rectangular, as though they had been carved to perfectly match each other.

Paul locked the journal up in an unused drawer and decided to go about trying to cure his nightmares without the use of his writing.

Things only got worse – going from night terrors into the light of Paul's daily life. His manner around everyone, not only in his personal life, but also at work, deteriorated into rubbish. His growing phobia soon translated into an obsession with learning about everything dealing with the local legend. He pulled out his old dream journal, threw out all of the pages that he had written in before, and he started to keep a collection, loose only at first, of everything he heard about the human spider.

Things began to come together, to synchronize, into a coherent story that seemed to happen again and again.

One of the stories he collected went like this: A woman who lived alone at the edge of town was walking alone after she had gone fishing. She was in a good mood as she walked home, enjoying the sun and the shade from the trees' canopies, the way the leaves left pretty speckled shadows on everything in the forest path.

She heard a noise, turned around to look at where it had come from, and screamed, dropping her fishing equipment where she left it until she and her neighbor got it the next afternoon. There was nothing more that was particularly interesting about her story, save that two weeks after the incident a serious fire burnt down her home while she was held up in the grocery store. She said that she felt that if she had not had trouble in the store, and had come home those extra ten minutes early, she would have been trapped in her house.

The other interesting thing about the woman, her story, was that she was later found, unconscious, next to the same spot where she had dropped her fishing equipment. She was taken to the hospital, where she lived for a day before she died.

In Paul's estimation, nearly everyone who saw the thing was going to die, but if they didn't die the first time that their stroke of “bad luck” kicked in, then they died in a more excruciating way somewhere a little further down the line. They never lasted past a month to the day that they escaped death. Paul became more than a little afraid of going outside after hearing of the fishing woman's story, and he began to find ways to stay inside as often as he could. To him being outside was what brought the human spider to its victim.

Paul convulsively gathered more and more information, never discounting any story that he ever heard of that rang of the same elements of all of the others. He stopped taking pride in his work professionally, finding perverse pride in his mastery of the thing of his nightmares, in the cataloging of its habits, its anatomy, and its secrets.

He tried to perfect a drawing of it, the first attempt at its sketch falling apart when the number of erasing that had been done on the paper tore holes through the work. He ripped the ruined page out of the journal and continued to sketch on a fresh sheet, trying to discover the fearful perfection that made up its eyes.

Left the Forest Lost Sleep Tight (Part One)

Paul had heard about the thing on the day that he came to live in town. News of it had come to him while he was in his office. As a foot specialist, he was being kept busy on his first day at work, caused in no small part by the facts that the town had had no local podiatrist for the last ten years as well as the fact that he had begun unpacking that day as well.

The first patient of the day had been a backwoods local who had told the nurse that he had “broke his foot real bad” and who had an impromptu brace attached to the injured leg. He said he had to do it himself, because he had to drive himself to the clinic.

He was taken into the examination room huffing in pain, and in his haste to go into the room he ended up whacking the harmed leg against the door frame. Howling, he nearly crumpled to his knees in pain, and then waved Paul off of him when he came to help him up, stuttering out, “Sorry, sorry, new on this thing.”

Trouble continued from there, as the man refused Paul's help in hopping onto the examination cot, taking a full minute in doing it himself. Paul would wonder, four weeks after this meeting, if it had perhaps been the man's bull-headedness or his clumsiness that had contributed to his falling down a steep hill, resulting in him cracking his head open on those train tracks they would later find him on. After he managed to get the brace off of the man's leg, Paul was able to see the extent of damage that he had sustained.

“You hurt your ankle and shin pretty badly. How'd you manage it?”

The man was silent for a moment, looking as though he was struggling with what to tell Paul, then muttering, “I was runnin'.”

“A relay race?”

The man grimaces. “That's for high schoolers. I was runnin' from something.”

“What kind of a something?”

The man looked away before speaking in a voice frank in its fear. “Something I never seen in those woods before.”

“Why'd you run from it?”

The man turned to look at Paul then, his eyes surprising him with the amount of unbridled fear in them. “Youda run, if you saw it.”

Paul, thinking of how often the good 'ol boys in town must drink, suppressed the urge to chuckle at this assertion. “Well, what did it look like?”

Looking down at his hands, the man said, “I couldn't actually see it – I thank God almighty for that – but I know that it was a body.”

“Body? Like, what kind of a body?”

“Like a body, in a graveyard.”

Paul, unable to help himself, started to grin. “So, a zombie, then?”

The man bristled in anger, his voice tight as he spoke. “No, I wasn't that drunk... It crawled all around, like a spider, or a crab. Except it looked like a person, but... different.”

The words weighed eerily on Paul's mind, and he hurried through the rest of the initial examination before rushing the man into the x-ray room to get his foot scanned.

The words stayed with him – like a cuckoo dropping its egg into a doomed sparrow's nest. It didn't help that the daily doldrum of the town only increased its growth in his mind, and it kept crawling back to Paul.

The memory of the hick's recounting of the human spider came back into Paul's dreams, and, subsequently, into his dream journal.

The Changeling (Story of Id) - Part Five (The Finale)

Rising to Its feet, the Thing knew that Its twin was aware of what It planned to do to her. She had begun to drag herself, pitifully, as though looking for an escape.

The clay thing marched towards her, Its will strengthened by the certainty that it must complete this, that it was Fate's doing that brought this all into being.

The twin seemed to stare at It, horribly transfixed by Its approach, gun raised and pointed, a demand, a promise. Her mouth opened wide in a scream, offering the nearly blind clay-thing a target to shoot. The scream rang off of the walls, before dying slowly.

The clay-thing stood still expectantly, and when nothing happened, It turned and said, “You... lied... to... meee...”

“The effect should occur soon – for both of our sakes, I hope it happens soon.”

“R-r-ramific... ramifications... what are the... ramifications... of... killing... her?”

“If her identity doesn't take to you, we'll be punished. We'll have hell to pay for what we both just did.”

“We'll be... punish-”

The clay-thing gasped and lurched forward. Spasms shook It, and it opened Its mouth to scream. Instead of a scream, a dry rattle poured from Its mouth.

Muse walked over to It, looking down at the shaking thing.

She kicked it.

It seemed to re-animate after a period of short stillness, Its body writhing in small motions, as though insects crawled through it, and had responded to some kind of powerful stimuli. Movement in the Thing amplified, and Its skin formed large, boil-like cysts, spreading to cover It. They then began to crack apart, sloughing off into large piles around It. It was difficult to see at first, but Muse could see that under the splitting was the form that she knew existed. New flesh was exposed from the chaffing of the old.

Muse bent to her knees and pushed the thing on Its side, searching for the first sign of a return to its cognitive abilities. After pushing failed to elicit a response, she slapped the Thing's freshly burst face. As soon as the blow landed, the Thing's new true mouth fell open, and a clear liquid oozed from Its thin lips.

Muse leapt back and hissed angrily, fixing her eyes on Its face, looking for any signs of a return to life.

The Thing drooled more, the liquid now pouring out steadily, a puddle forming around it, beginning to encompass It. As the liquid touched different parts of Its body, the skin began to move, seemingly containing a sentience of its own. And then the body under the broken skin moved, not in a mindless seizure, but slowly, deliberately, like a fetus moving for the first time.

Muse walked next to It, her eyes locked on the bizarre sight at her feet. She reached for the Thing's head, and a very human groan emerged from it. An almost warm smile spread on Muse's lips.

The smile faded from her lips as violent shaking overtook the membranous walls of the chamber and the lights in the already darkened chamber dimmed further.

Panicked, Muse reached under the shedded clay and grabbed for a hand, pulling it up. She tried to lift It with all of her might, but It must have grown extra weight through Its transformation, and the clay-thing did not so much as twitch in response to her attempts at raising It to Its feet.

“Get up, right now!” Muse shrieked, slapping and pulling at Its arm. “Get up! We'll be thrown into the Deep unless you get up! Oh, I should have forced you to kill her, before you saw what you were; your self-awareness is taking too much time, lengthening your growth time. We don't have time for this!”

The Thing finally groaned in response to her shrieking, and It came into consciousness, It tested Its limbs slowly, almost drowsily, and Muse drew away from It, allowing It to struggle to Its feet on Its own.

Bent, feebily, at Its knees, It began to straighten Its back, standing as upright as It could manage. Looking at Muse with new eyes that could now read every distinct line on her face, It tried to speak, and only managed to speak in gurgled nonsense before being nearly sent back down to ground with the strength of the tremors that shook the chamber surrounding them.

Muse seemed to act cautiously, speaking and acting in the most genuine way that she had ever done with It. She stepped forward, pressing her full weight down on Its shoulders with her hands. “You're going to forget about all of this, anyway, so I feel like I can say this; the only reason I care about this whole debacle is because I need for my work to go out into the world. You had better be stronger than the original one, or-”

A huge groan reverberated through the chamber, and the whole room shook as everything was dashed about in the chamber. The air was momentarily knocked out of the clay-thing when It felt something strike Its back, hard, and It tumbled over, falling. Getting back up, It realized that the corpse of Its twin had hit It, and lolled, rag-doll like, on the ground next to It.

It felt Itself being pushed by Muse into a particular direction. It cooperated, walking limply with Muse's support, and It lifted Its head in time to see that It was walking towards a gaping hole.

It tried, weakly, to fight Muse off. Muse seemed to know what the Thing would try to fight, as she shoved and held onto It with painful strength, increasing the speed of their walking.

The Thing groaned weakly, pressing with all of Its pitiful strength against Muse, so that Its head was pressed fully against the heavy folds of Its captor's dress. It comforted Itself with keeping Its eyes from off of the horrible portal, with the denying of, at least, this eventuality.

Eyes shut tightly, It shouted fearfully when It felt a sucking sensation at Its feet, pulling It rapidly into yet another tunnel. It tried to yank Its feet free of the pulling folds, but felt the tunnel squeeze more tightly in response.

Muse shoved the rest of It in, roughly pushing Its hands away when It attempted to tug at her dress. She looked down at the Thing's transformed eyes for one last time, and she allowed her disgust to show on her face for the first time at the sight of the Thing's fear, which turned Its already ugly features into something yet more hideous.

It cried out, frightened, as Its head was swallowed by the tunnel of thick flesh, and in the chamber the lights completely fell, allowing Muse to assume Its own true form, becoming one with the dark.

The Changeling (Story of Id) - Part Four

It rose to its feet, keeping its eyes locked on the terrible thing reflected in the mirror. It didn't know why it began to panic, but It did then, flailing and running. It tried to scream, silently, Its head filling with insane noise.

It was unaware of Muse's protests, orders, and threats, as It begins to tear at its face, ripping a large hole in its face. It did not feel the pain immediately, but when It did, It screams in genuine, unending pain. Even to Its own ears, Its screaming sounded like an insect's dying screeching.

Muse and the woman on the floor watched Its spectacle as It sank to Its knees, pressing Its terribly injured face to the scarce comfort of the reflective floor. Blood and clay formed in a pool around Its head, and It could not care.

Croakingly, It slowly asked, “What am I, Muse?”

Muse remained speechless, and It gratified Itself with heaving, shuddering in the painful aftershocks of the damage It had done to Itself.

Finally, she said, “The Inner Eye. You see, but when you're exposed, you're nothing, save for Consciousness.”

The clay-thing groaned. “I am... I am... I-”

“You're not. You have her memories, in the clearest view. I do not blame you for wishing to be her, but you're not. You are not her.”

“Then... what... can... I-”

“Kill her. Do it now. What will happen here will not be a murder. Not really. There will be no one missing, you will simply take her place, as ruler of this Vessel. She has damned us both to die in this funeral pyre with her, but I resolve not to go with her. Is that fair to me? Was it to be fair to you?”

A realization came to the clay-thing, but it felt empty, although It acknowledged it. “You... care... nothing... for... me.”

“No, I don't. I care for myself, my fate. She meant for me to walk with her through her own self-imposed servitude to grief, when I was meant to lead her through the path to greatness. She betrayed me. She betrayed you, as well. I care only for you because you are the closest to being able to become her. I am not about to offer you nothing, however; I am content with offering you the same that I once offered to her. Whatever will make you happy, I can show you to.”

“You speak... as though... there... are... others. Are... we... not... alone?”

Muse paused, then spoke with unrestrained coldness. “They were weak, like her. Some are already dead, some dying, and some may make it over the crossing of consciousness. Don't think of them, now, think of us. Of her betrayal.”

The clay-thing shuddered, feeling the lack of goodness that emanated from this being. It knew that she was no she; no more than It was a she. The clay-thing felt as though she was no different from It – except that maybe she was uglier than It was – and the only real difference between them was that she knew how to lie. It was not surprised to realize that everything that she had said to It, prior, was likely to be a coldly calculated untruth.

Am I to be her puppet?

Did it matter?

“You'll... help... me?”

Muse walked over to the clay-thing, waiting for It to raise Its head, and silently handed It the gun. As It took the gun from her hand, she said, “I'll be your friend.”

The Changeling (Story of Id) - Part Three

A young woman laid bare on the floor, shivering erratically. For the longest moment, all that she could do was stare down at the woman, and feel as though she were looking down at herself.

The woman looked up from where she lay, her eyes widened, and she screamed as she looked behind her twin. Turning around, her twin saw that Muse stood only a few feet behind her, brandishing a gun. Confused, the twin took a step back.

Muse gestured for her to take the gun from her. The woman took another step backwards. Muse glared at her. “You must. There is no time to debate this – and you have no mouth to do so, even if we did have the time. She's not you; she nothing. She's an It.”

Behind her, her twin groans, and turning around, she saw that she was convulsing from head to toe, her eyes fully exposed to the point that they nearly popped free from their sockets. Horror filled her to bursting, and she turned to face Muse once more, shaking her head erratically.

Anger blossomed red in Muse's cheeks, and for a moment, she can see something deep, beyond her adversary's composure – something hideous – hiding. “You do not want the knowledge that I possess. I can do great damage to you with it. It will be far more painful than it will be shooting yourself with this. Kill that pitiful creature, now.”

Although frightened, she shaked her head again, and Muse ran with frightening speed and grasped her, roughly. Glancing over to where Muse had grabbed her upper arm, she saw that what was once a beautiful hand is now a black, reptilian claw.

Shocked, she is in no place to fight back when Muse wrests her to the ground. She lays there, in a daze, as Muse strengthens her position over her. “Open your eyes,” Muse hisses into her ear. “The ground is reflective, now.”

She opens her eyes, and sees her own reflection. She also sees why she cannot speak, and cannot feel any mouth on her face.

The skin covering her looked sunken, bloated, and grey, like fresh clay. Looking back at her were eyes like shined rocks, that looked as though they had been shoved into her grotesque face. Hair grew sparse, thin, white, on her head in patches. She was lip-less, and where her mouth and nose should have been there was a smooth expanse on her badly formed face.

Feeling sick, she rose her arms up, and her reflection showed them to be pitiful sticks, tipped with crude versions of fingers. She flexed her fingers. The thing in the mirror flexed its.

The thing was unaware of the fact that Muse had let go of her. It didn't care.