There's a hole in the wall just under your night stand. It's small and uninteresting to say the least. A quarter sized, jagged little thing that you wouldn't even notice.
As if opened just so you can peer inside; it sits there in the trim. Cracked into existence like a small opening into your inner self..
It calls to you. It beckons you to witness what lies beyond.
No what makes this little hole so interesting isn't the hole at all.
It's what lives inside.
Like a cornucopia its vastly full of possibilities. Abundant in possibility even, abundant in curiosity, maybe even delivering a sense of wonder.
Or fear of the unknown.
You push the night stand aside. A draft permeates the room. The hole breathes to you.
Your heart-rate quickens as you align yourself with the wall and by the strength of your arms, level your chest to the floor.
What mysteries will be solved within this wall? What resolutions will you face? Will we face? Once we peer beyond this opening into a vast unknown..
You align your eye with nothing to guide your next few experiences but the ignorance of the carbon world your inquisitiveness begs to leave behind.
You gaze into the darkness.
It's still..
It's silent..
It's not full of the possibilities or wonder you had so blindly sought..
The terror approaches you..
Approaches us..
Like the inferno of a great cataclysm it ruptures forth.
Carried upon the backs of mice. The Quill of knowledge is a regrettable inheritance. And you've just received it by gargantuan sum.
These mice cast forth a forgotten world. A hidden terror. A beastiary of maliciousness that too live within the wall. The predation of our world exists beyond this crack in the trim.
And the mice have come to show you.
To show the one who would bare the horrors of witness.
To show you the silent memories of their hollow, unbiased eyes.
They you show the true terrors of what lies in wait when the sun sets upon your bed.
The fangs and hollow eyes that hunt our souls. The rot and pestilence that picks us off one by one and drags us silent into the night.
This is your knowledge now.
Our knowledge.
The once blissful shield of human ignorance lifted away by the encumbered clearing of the waters around you.
Leaving you exposed to the one thing that unifies all life. Fear. Predation by fear itself. Embodied in nothing but the nightmares of nightmares.
Yes the mice deliver this to you..
Eternally stuck in a hypnotic download of information. As if reading a collection of short stories; you spend your entire life absorbing these stories. Withering into nothing more than dust. Where you too will be swept away by the draft. To reside beyond this hole in the wall.
But in the same instant it's over. The stories have been planted but all you remember is a cold chill down your spine. And you forget the mice existed. In fact, you didn't see anything at all.
And as you push the night stand back into it's regular position and lay back in your bed, the darkness deepens throughout your room.
You pick up your novel of short stories. A novel that you don't remember reading except you know the stories within; and as if anew. You turn the page.
Soon adding to the book claimed to be written by mice..