The Black Church

Have you ever seen yourself die? I have.

I was just a normal mid-twenties college-graduate when that horrific nightmare occurred. It was not like any experience I had been through before, and now it is my every waking nightmare.

My story begins like that of many recent college graduates, living in the city without a real job. I recently graduated from Miskatonic University with a degree in Art History—a worthless degree which unfortunately is a realization that came to me in my senior year. I had no real job except working at a run-down old club in the seedier side of town. I wasn’t skilled enough to be anything like a bartender—who nowadays are part performer, part showman, and a little part drink servers. No, I worked there just making sure any punk who thought he could miraculously make it in the music business wasn’t in a foul mood or killed by gang members who didn’t like his lyrics.

It was one of my nights off when my friends—I call them friends because that was what I thought they were before those events occurred—convinced me to spend a night of luxury in the very place that I worked. I wish to any and all deities that I had not been insane enough to go that night, but I went along with them anyway.

Scientists say that by this age, my brain should have matured to support my decision-making processes. I should not have made such rash and potentially dangerous choices. I made all of them anyway. Perhaps it was because I was depressed about having no real career and that I was wasting my life. Perhaps it was because my brain—due to some forgotten event—was stunted and had not matured enough to make competent choices. Lastly, perhaps I just did whatever I felt like, but whatever the reason, I consumed a dangerous cocktail of drugs that evening.

I remember smoking things that my so-called “friends” had brought with them. I remember needles and a rush of pure bliss. I remember taking pills that quickly followed with mind-numbingly bright colors and shapes beyond imagination. I know I drank, injected, swallowed, and inhaled many substances that night. I will never know what those substances were. I could never reproduce the myriad narcotics in my body that night, and I wouldn’t want to, even if I could. Because I believe that unique combination of drugs caused them to notice me.

Some people who use recreational drugs believe they alter the user. Some say hallucinogens allow us to see truths just beyond our normal perceptions. They say hallucinogens temporarily alter our brains to perceive things—lacking a single term for these reality distortions—that aren’t quite material. They claim our minds in this altered state see hidden truths, but our waking brains see them as hallucinations because we cannot comprehend this defiance of the reality we know as human beings. I’m not a scientist, but this is the only logical explanation I have for how these events began.

I don’t know how I managed to make it back to my apartment after my night of stupid debauchery, but I woke up there. I woke in that hellhole the next day around noon, my clothes ruined by stains, and my phone dead. I thought that was probably a good thing, because I had no clue what I had done the night before and didn’t want anyone telling me the details. My head was pounding, and my heartbeat felt like a sledgehammer wrecking the inside of my body. I muttered some curse word or another as I made my way to the bathroom that morning.

I finished my business, so I walked to the sink to wash my hands as usual. There was some motion behind me, at least I thought it was behind me. I whipped around and threw open the shower curtain, but there was nothing there. It was just a figment of my imagination, or so I thought as I turned back to washing my hands. There it was in the mirror, some blurry movement behind me again. For a second time, I turned around to confront it, but it was not there. I decided to ignore anything else, because it was obvious to me then that this was all in my head. It was most likely caused by the drugs I had taken the night before. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

I bent down and washed my head in the sink to try to dull the throbbing pain with the cold water. I blindly grabbed a hand towel off the ring to dry my head, and when I looked back at the mirror, it was there behind me. I turned back and saw nothing. I looked again at the mirror, and there it was. It was still behind me. Back and forth I whipped my head until I figured out that it was in the mirror.

The thing was walking toward me slowly. It was not human, and I had no name for what it was. It was tall, standing around seven feet, as best I can remember. It had four arms. Two of them, the ones on the chest, were much shorter than the others. On each arm was a hand with three fingers—two fingers and a thumb-like appendage—that ended in long, deadly-looking claws. It had no eyes, no ears, and no nose. Just a mouth with teeth too small and sharp to be human. It was fading, blinking, and shaking like an image on TV when you lose signal. It was moving ever closer, but it was not there behind me. It existed only in the mirror.

Then it was looming over me. I swear I could feel its breath on my neck, even though I knew it existed only in my mirror reflection. I watched as it placed a clawed hand on my shoulder, and I found myself in the real world unable to move. I saw its other long arm appear, my eyes wide in horror. My breath was taken away, and with a quick motion, I watched my throat slit.
I tried to look away, but my eyes were drawn to the horror that nobody should face. I felt my body being pulled forward as if I were going to collapse. Though I fought it, I still slipped down toward the sink. I felt myself unable to breathe, and just as I thought I was going to die, the nightmare grew worse.

I felt myself pulled back up to a standing position and saw the monster pulling me with its two long arms. It held me there, suspended, as I felt my body being pushed. I watched my body in the reflection bulge. The two smaller arms pierced through my body. Then the monstrous creature began to fold itself into my mirrored body. Piece by piece, it impossibly fit itself inside me, until at last it folded its large, insect-like arms inside. My body in the image convulsed. I was compelled to follow its movements, until I collapsed to the floor.

I felt as if the grip on me had been released. I could breathe freely again and move without resistance. Unable to shake the image, my stomach heaved its contents all over the ground, terrified by the horrors I had just witnessed. When I could stand, I grabbed the edge of the sink to pull myself up. It took much longer than normal because of my trembling legs and weak knees. But when I did, I gathered enough courage to look in the mirror and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

My reflection was normal. There was nothing behind me, no slit throat, and nothing forcing my body to move against my will. At least for a moment, then I felt my hand begin to move. I looked down and watched as it reached toward the mirror. I tried to will it to stop moving, but it was no longer mine. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, and it looked back at me, slightly out of sync. It snarled in anger at me, and I felt my mouth move according to its command.

I began to fight it with all my strength, fighting every movement it tried to command. I grabbed my wrist, pulling with all my weight as if in a tug-of-war match. Finally, I thought I had an edge on this monster pulling me, but then I felt my foot slip in the vomit. Too late, I realized I was sliding toward the mirror. In desperation, I flung myself head-first into the mirror, compelling my evil reflection to move with me. I crashed into the mirror, collapsed onto the sink, and fell unconscious.

I awoke around six in the evening, groggy and sore from flinging myself into the mirror. I could barely tell approximately what time it was by the amount of light in the room. The mirror! The horror of it came crashing back into my mind with a speed like that of a bullet train. I refused to stand up and see my reflection. I had felt finally connected to the experiences I suffered with the mostly shattered mirror. Ignoring the grossness of my vomit, the myriad broken glass pieces, and puddles of my own blood, I forced myself to crawl into my dimly lit shabby living room.

I finally got what my mind needed: to reset itself. Unfortunately, it chose a panic attack to do so. For those who have never experienced a true panic attack, it was truly terrifying. My breathing became shallow, and I felt like I couldn’t get enough air. As this happened, my mind was flooded with thoughts. My thoughts were a mess, with only a few words standing out clearly; the rest were faint whispers.

Eventually, I regained control of my mind and sat up. I decided that everything I’d seen was just a nightmare from the drugs. Looking down, I saw the mess of my clothes. I was covered in vomit, my clothes were torn, and when I touched my head, my hand came away sticky with blood. I knew I had to clean myself up and then clean the bathroom.

Though I was convinced it was all a hallucination, I was still nervous about entering the bathroom. I slowly crept toward the bathroom door, then suddenly rushed into the now-ruined room.

Once inside, I saw how ruined the bathroom had become after the night’s horrors. Vomit smeared the floor from my fall and unconscious movements. Pieces of the broken mirror were scattered everywhere, most stained with my blood. I noticed damage I hadn’t seen before: I’d broken the old porcelain sink and had also torn down the shower curtain, bending the rod badly.

Then I felt my eyes drawn to the mirror shards on the floor. I didn’t want to look, but I felt a pull, like a magnet tugging at metal. My feet tried to move toward them, barely held back by my will. Finally, I tore my gaze away.

I stood in my living room, unable to do what I’d planned. My LED clock blinked twelve, signaling a city power outage—a rare event since they switched to underground cables. Oddly, my battery-powered wall clock was stopped at 12:01 a.m., too.

I gave up on cleaning the bathroom and went to my room to change into clean clothes. I chose a long-sleeve tee and plain jeans, slathering on deodorant. As I left, I grabbed my dead phone from my nightstand and tossed my ruined clothes into the sink.

I gathered my thoughts, trying to plan my next move. I thought of my ex-girlfriend, Clarice Jefferson. We’d graduated together, but she stayed for a master’s in anthropology. We’d split amicably, as friends, since we connected better as classmates than lovers. She’d always been there for me, and I couldn’t imagine anyone better to talk to about this.

I was headed out, keys and wallet in hand, when I remembered the gash on my head. I quickly stuck my head under the kitchen faucet—barely a kitchen at all. The water washed off the blood and woke me up a bit. I dried my hair with paper towels until they came back mostly clean.

I walked a block and a half to the nearest bus stop. Taking the bus is cheaper than owning a car in the city. At the stop, another regular, Harriet—whose last name I never learned—was there. I asked when the bus was coming, and she said the 7:20 bus would be here in about twenty minutes. I waited in the awkward silence only a bus stop can bring.

The bus was a few minutes late, but it felt like forever. I got on, swiped my pass, and took a seat near the back, away from the driver. My mind was still reeling from the trauma, making me suspicious of every move the other passengers made. I knew the route by heart: two stops, then I’d get off at the third and walk a couple of blocks to Clarice’s apartment near campus.

As I stared out the window, letting my mind drift, I felt strange, like time was slowing. My body felt stuck, like in a dream. I felt lighter, as if gravity had let go. The world outside changed—buildings looked ghostly, stretched, twisting into impossible shapes. The landscape turned alien, shifting and fluid, barely real. Then I heard voices calling to me.

I call them thoughts, but that’s not quite right for what I heard. They were like sounds, but more, echoing in my head. If I had to explain, I’d say I felt their meaning in my body. The voices were sharp, high-pitched, unlike anything human. The parts I felt, I understood.

It wasn’t one voice but many, calling as one in a terrible language. One voice, deeper and louder, stood out. They spoke of things I couldn’t fully understand—vast universes, a time when all were one, called the FIRST. When they spoke of the FIRST—their god, I assumed—that deep voice said “I” alone, apart from the others.

They went on, a single awful voice, telling of a chaotic void before the universe had form. They spoke of the FIRST’s pain, but then a hand touched my shoulder. I thanked God for that stranger’s touch—it broke the voices’ hold on me. My mind snapped back, and the world became normal again.
I was shocked to find myself standing in the bus aisle, hand reaching for the rearview mirror, pulled by some force. In the mirror, I saw a man asking if I was okay, but I couldn’t speak—like my reflection wouldn’t let me. My eyes widened, but my face grinned, predatory, against my will.

Luck was with me when the bus stopped, the jolt knocking me down, breaking the spell. I scrambled off into the cool fall night. It had started raining, and something dripped down my neck. Thinking it was rain, I wiped it, but my hand was red. My ear was bleeding, and suddenly, nausea hit. I vomited on the sidewalk.

I cleaned up and barely walked the remaining blocks to Clarice’s apartment. Sounds were muffled; I couldn’t hear right. The world was a blur, but I knew I had to reach her. I stumbled to her door, knocked weakly, and saw her appear, worried, mouthing “Payton” as I collapsed into unconsciousness at her feet.

Normally, when one collapses—at least in my experience—it’s a dreamless sleep, leaving you unrested. This time, only the latter was true, as my unconscious sleep was filled with terrible visions of that alien landscape.

Again, I floated through that ever-shifting landscape, almost metaphysical, as if shaped by an ever-changing mind. Drifting through this vast, formless world, I gained enough control over my astral form to look toward what I thought was the sky—but it wasn’t. It was as if I were floating over semi-solid land in an airless nebula. There was no sign of an atmosphere, no stars or sun, yet the nebula glowed with countless colors in all directions. I could only wonder what sustained this place I hovered over.

High-pitched echoes, like voices, washed over me at once. I felt them—for that was how I understood their words—revealing terrible things. They spoke of their desire to reduce matter to a simpler state, like the ever-changing landscape around me. They spoke of worshiping the FIRST, a formless and all-present being. In their horrible, inhuman language, they told of terrible truths and human disciples.

I couldn’t believe there were worshippers of these creatures and refused to accept it. If these foul voices belonged to the same horror I saw in the mirror, these creatures were nightmares made real. Only the most depraved human could conceive of worshipping such horrors. I wished their words had stopped, for their truly horrific plans for the world were still to come.

These deranged humans—only the maddest would worship such a terrible existence—worshipped the FIRST, whose chants were not mere empty words but served a terrible purpose. Their words conjured images of lines that ran across the Earth, which I recognized as the much-theorized ley lines, created by the FIRST’s human worshippers. I heard them singing praises to the FIRST. His voice was now silent among the unseen throng.

They sang of His revenge on the universe, of the FIRST’s all-encompassing form devouring the material plane, leaving only those who truly loved His formless beauty. The terrible song sang of how those who truly loved Him would dedicate themselves to His purpose, creating a more perfect universe in His design, according to His will. The voices rose in pitch, repeating their words at an ever-faster rate, until finally reaching a cacophonous crescendo, followed by silence. Then the voice, His voice, rang out, saying, “LET IT BE.”
I now understood the truth of the plane I was inside, for this was the incorporeal form of the terrible being they called the FIRST. All I saw in this place was Him. The voices cried out again, “Let us, the Second, create all things in the FIRST’s image. Let all things be Him.”

I felt myself drawn by their charisma and the strength of their words. Like a whirlpool, I was sucked into their beliefs. I understood then how, over eons, so many had been swayed to worship the terror of the FIRST. I fought with my consciousness as best I could, but their pull was stronger than my will. If there is a holy deity or deities in the universe, it was only by their will that Clarice woke me just as I was about to give in to their call.

Her gentle jostling of my body was enough to snap me out of my trance-like nightmare. I could tell by the light in the room that it was morning. Another chunk of time stolen from me by these strange events. I knew, even then, that this wouldn’t be the last such experience.

“Hey, Payton. You really need to wake up; you’re severely dehydrated.” Her face showed worry. I didn’t like seeing that expression marring her beautiful face from her rich Jamaican heritage. I did as she asked and got up; I was weak. Clarice was right, as always. I couldn’t recall when I’d drunk anything.

“I need your help,” I told her bluntly after guzzling my third glass of water.

“I can tell, especially after your collapsing in my doorway,” she said, arms crossed, sitting across from me on her sofa. Her apartment was far better than the eyesore that was my home. “You scared me half to death, looking so pale and feeling so cold. But first, explain this.”

Clarice showed me a picture on her phone. It was I lying on the bed, but on the sheet beside me was a hieroglyph. Complex, swirling, and symmetrical, it began at four points, forming various angles, ultimately resembling a horrible-looking eye. Just seeing it filled me with unease.
I looked at my hand, and sure enough, my right index finger was freshly bandaged. “How do you know this hieroglyph?” she asked, glaring, all worry gone from her eyes.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.” I hoped she believed me, as I had no idea. This worried me deeply. I’d never sleepwalked or done anything similar. That I’d started sleepwalking must be related to everything happening. Recalling my trance-like bus experience, I hurried to the spare bedroom where she had carried me.

There it was on the wall before the bed, the only connection—a large mirror that provided a full view of anyone sleeping there. I yanked off my shoe, preparing to throw it at the mirror, when Clarice grabbed my arm. “You don’t understand! That mirror is the cause of all this! It’s how everything keeps happening!” I yelled, my voice turning manic.

“Payton, calm down! Just tell me what’s happening,” she said soothingly. “Come back to the living room. You can explain there.” I followed her back.

“I need you to know one thing before I start: everything I’m telling you is real. No matter how crazy it sounds, it’s completely true.” I told her about the night at the club and waking the next day. I described the horrifying mirror experience. Then I recounted my trip here, stressing the bus’s mirror. I omitted the visions, fearing even her open mind—an increasingly rare thing in anthropology—would doubt my sanity with tales of an alternate plane.
After I finished, a long silence followed. Finally, Clarice stood, grabbed a bottle of whisky from the cabinet, and poured a glass. “I’m struggling to believe you. Normally, I’d say you had spectrophobia or schizophrenia, but you’ve never shown those signs. You’re so scientific—which is odd for an art major, by the way. You’re even an atheist.” She took a swig of whisky. “That doesn’t mean I believe you, but there’s something I can’t explain, though: that hieroglyph.”

“How does that prove my sanity? I’d think it would do the opposite.”

“Because the public hasn’t seen this symbol. It’s a high-level academic secret.”

“I don’t understand. Why is it a secret? What does it mean?” I asked with a confused expression. I hadn’t expected this; all I sought was her comfort. Actual answers? That hadn’t crossed my mind.

Clarice poured another glass of whisky, less concerned with portion size. “That’s just it; we haven’t a clue what it means,” she said after a long swig. “You know my specialty is linguistic anthropology, focusing on Native American languages.” I nodded, knowing this. “Well, recently, there’s been excavation of ancient Native American mounds. A month ago, Dr. Thomas, the lead archaeologist, called me. Though I’m still a doctoral student, I’m known for a paper proposing a possible connection between ancient Native American and Mesopotamian languages. He knew my thesis focused on the language and culture of the Mound Builders. He said they found a hieroglyph unlike any other at the site, then showed me the symbol we’ve taken to calling ‘The Evil Eye.’”

“The symbol was so curious and so obviously not belonging to the civilization that I suspected Dr. Thomas was a victim of academic fraud. I showed it to my professor, hoping she could guide me. Dr. Shelly Hynes, my professor, specializes in linguistic anthropology, focusing on Egyptian linguistics. The moment I showed it to her, I knew something was wrong. She cursed under her breath—something I’d never heard her do—and asked where I got it. I explained everything, and when I mentioned its source, she unleashed a string of curses I didn’t know she could even think, let alone say out loud.

“Dr. Hynes said, ‘This symbol is the greatest and best-kept secret in the academic world.’ She reached into her desk and pulled out a thick folder of hundreds of pages of pictures and documents. I began reviewing them, finding the same symbol in China, Egypt, South America, India, England, Norway, and beyond. ‘We’ve found this symbol worldwide. It’s so distinct from any known language that it’s not part of any alphabet but has a unique, unknown meaning.’”

“So, you’re saying this symbol I drew in my sleep, in my blood, isn’t just some crazy thing?” I asked nervously.

“Exactly.” She was silent for a minute, then said, “There’s something else odd about it: it doesn’t vary from place to place.”

“I don’t understand,” I replied sheepishly.

“In language, we can trace a symbol’s roots. For example, we can trace our alphabet by following each symbol’s cultural evolution from a starting point. This symbol? It breaks that rule. It’s identical every time we see it! Even yours is exactly the same!” I couldn’t respond. Clarice was visibly shaken by this destruction of her faith in scientific logic.

My eyes drifted toward the Evil Eye—as Clarice called it—as she spoke, my eyes slowly glued to the image, seeing nothing else. Clarice shook my shoulder violently, but my gaze remained fixed. Then a mental snap hit my brain, and I was no longer in my body. I was traveling the labyrinthine streets of Old Arkham until I reached my destination.
I stood before a walled-off courtyard surrounding an old Victorian-style church. It was covered in dead vines, its once-red brick wall crumbling with age. The wrought-iron gate had fallen aside, and I stepped through to a churchyard choked with dead grass and weeds. My eyes drifted to the church, painted black long ago and abandoned. Its windows, coated in layers of black, seemed to block all light.

Driven by curiosity, I walked toward the front steps, toward the open black maw of the entryway. Glancing to my left, I saw on the ground a barely legible sign reading First Methodist Church of Arkham. I returned to my body, feeling a pull like a magnet toward what I assumed was the old church on the hill. I knew I couldn’t resist long. “This is going to sound crazy, but I know where I have to go. I understand if you don’t want to.”

She looked at me. Stared at me is probably more accurate. Something about my facial expression or posture must have told her that I had experienced a waking vision. There was a sigh, and then Clarice said,“ Shut up, Payton, let’s go.”

We drove to Old Arkham, a relic surrounded by the modern city’s gleaming skyscrapers and bustling commerce. Over the years, residents had abandoned the old town’s charm for modern conveniences, leaving behind only a few trust-fund couples seeking to renovate historic homes, weary wanderers hiding from the world, and stubborn families unwilling to adapt. Even Miskatonic University, my alma mater, had relocated to the new city, leaving Old Arkham a shadow of its former self.

The car’s confined space overwhelmed my mirror-induced paranoia. After reaching a point I deemed close enough to walk, I insisted we park. Clarice resisted at first but relented when she spotted a nearby restaurant. We parked and entered Abdul’s Diner by mid-afternoon. A heavy, rainless sky loomed overhead, casting a foreboding pallor over the town. The diner, likely opened in the 1950s, showed signs of neglect, its faded decor mirroring the weary patrons within. The customers sat in eerie silence, their shoulders slumped, eyes vacant, as if entranced. A soulless place, if ever I saw one.

We settled at a table, enveloped by an awkward silence unbroken by music or conversation. When the waiter approached, his forced smile seemed robotic, almost sinister, as if his face were a mask concealing something darker. We ordered in hushed whispers and endured the patrons’ stares until our food arrived. The meal was as bland as the atmosphere, and we ate quickly, paid, and left.
Walking toward the church on the hill felt easier with each step, as if the compulsion guiding me strengthened in that direction. Every move away from it was a struggle. As we walked, the sky darkened, and the old buildings seemed to loom, threatening to collapse and bury us in their ruins. The sparse population dwindled further the closer we got to our destination.

Eventually, we encountered an elderly man whose lined face still held a spark of life, unlike the town’s oppressive gloom. Clarice, ever the curious scientist, struck up a conversation. He was eager to talk until we mentioned the church on the hill. His eyes widened, and his feet twitched as if to flee, but something made him stay. With trembling hands, he offered to share what he knew if we gave him money for a decent drink. We handed him some cash, which he pocketed slowly.

“Not here,” he whispered. “Too many of ‘em lurking, listening. Follow me.” The magnetic pull toward the church made following him difficult, but I managed to trail him to a dilapidated apartment building a block away. A crude, cross-like symbol was carved into the door. “They don’t like these symbols,” he said. “Keeps their eyes and ears out of my life.”

Inside, every wooden wall bore carved holy symbols: the Star of David, an ankh, a Wiccan sun and pentagram, and others so ancient their meanings were lost to time. The sheer madness of the place felt wrong, as if it repelled my very presence.

“I recognize some of these,” Clarice said, careful not to judge. “Inca symbols, Paleo-Indian ones… but why would they fear these? And who are ‘they’?”

“Name’s Hob, not that you asked,” the man replied. “Least it was before they got nearly everyone here.” Seeing our looks of confusion, he continued, “I ain’t just some loony. Believe me or not, I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’m not makin’ this up.”

“You have our attention,” I said, sitting on a dusty couch and gesturing for Clarice to join me.

“It started before I was born,” Hob began. “My father said those livin’ near the old Methodist church on Hangman’s Hill were cursed. Called themselves Disciples. As a kid, I thought they were just odd—plenty of folks around here were. But somethin’ about them was… wrong. Their eyes looked dead, their movements unnatural, like their bodies didn’t fit ‘em right. They didn’t worship like us, gatherin’ on pagan days, chantin’ in some unearthly tongue so loud it kept us all awake. As I got older, people started disappearin’. One or two a year at first, easy to explain away. But soon, there were as many missin’ posters as there were folks left in Old Arkham. That’s when things got bad.”

Hob grabbed a half-empty whiskey bottle with a shaking hand and took a long swig. “The few of us left started actin’ strange, not themselves. More joined the Disciples. One Samhain, I followed ‘em. Wish to the heavens I hadn’t.

“They marched by torchlight, all lights in town shut off—supposedly for some kind of ‘maintenance’ that happened every time they marched. Hooded, they chanted in that wrong language, movin’ toward Hangman’s Hill. By midnight, they reached the Methodist church, whose walls are painted black as coal, windows sealed with layers of black paint. They filed in, bowin’ at the entrance.”
Hob sighed, letting the empty bottle fall and shatter on the floor. “I crept to the open door. Inside, they packed the mirrored room tight, torches on the walls. They stood ‘round a stone altar in the center. They laid my friend, Missy Peterson, on it. Their chantin’ grew louder, faster, and that symbol—the Evil Eye—glowed. Their words blurred into a buzz, and a tendril, thick as a man’s arm, burst from the altar.”
His voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands. “It wasn’t real, like glass, but it moved. It pierced her chest. She screamed as it lifted her, then dragged her into the altar. Somethin’ blurred out, and four people kneelin’ nearby shook violently. A voice, deep as the sea, roared in my head, ‘EMBRACE THE SECOND. I SHALL COME. ALL SHALL BE THE FIRST.'”

“Wait!” Clarice interjected,”How do you know about that symbol? How do you know it’s called that?”

Hob took a second, going from angry at being interrupted to looking quizzical,” You know miss, don’t really know. I don’t think I ever heard any else call it anything else. Name just seemed to fit it. Like the Evil Eye called itself that. Now stop interrupting me, I’m almost done, then you can get the Hell out

“After seeing my dear friend die, I ran faster than ever, never lookin’ back. Like a damned coward. When I got home, I carved that cross on my door with the knife in my pocket. Beggin’ on God to protect me. They came that night. They stood screechin’ at the symbol on my door like animals fighting for territory, but by sunrise they were gone. They’ve watched me ever since, waitin’ for me to slip up. I never saw Missy again. Now I hide, drink, and survive ‘til they win.”

Summoning my courage, I asked the question I dreaded most: “What was the name of the old Methodist church?” Deep down, I already knew the answer. Perhaps it was my growing dread or something more sinister, but when Hob, his voice steady despite the whiskey, confirmed it was the First Methodist Church, I felt no surprise.

The pull toward the church intensified, like a child tugging insistently at my sleeve. Resignation settled over me, and Clarice’s expression mirrored my own. We knew our only choice was to go to the one place we knew we shouldn’t. We rose to leave in grim silence. Hob, half-dazed by alcohol, pressed a rosary into my hand with a slurred warning: “They don’t know which gods are real or fake. Don’t take this off. Ever.” I clasped the rosary, patted his shoulder, and left him to his drunken sorrow.

We stepped onto Old Arkham’s cracked sidewalks, the tall, narrow buildings looming oppressively overhead. The lights were out. The stars and moon provided enough light for us to walk. My compulsion guided us through twisting alleys with ease, the ground rising beneath our feet as we neared the church. Our silence was not awkward but resolute, each step driven by a shared determination to end this nightmare.

I could only guess Clarice’s thoughts—perhaps she envisioned uncovering the secret of the Evil Eye, the greatest archaeological discovery of our time. But these are reflections born of hindsight, not certainty.
Maybe it was even more personal than that. Maybe she was doing this in hope of saving me somehow. I wish I knew

We reached the brick wall encircling the First Methodist Church’s courtyard and graveyard. Gripping Clarice’s hand tightly, I clutched the rosary until it bit into my skin. We paused at the collapsed wrought-iron gate, steeling ourselves. The church’s open door revealed flickering torchlight within along with something else. The pull, now irresistible, drew my feet forward.

A sense of foreboding deepened as we approached. I glimpsed a weed-choked sign—likely the same one from my vision, now undeniable as more than a mere dream. From within came a low, reverent murmur, not whispered but steeped in awe. Clarice and I climbed the five steps cautiously and entered through the double doors, where we had obviously been expected by the loyal congregation.

The old pews were gone, leaving the wooden floor bare. In the center, painted in deep red, sprawled the intricate Evil Eye symbol. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined the walls, interrupted only by sconces holding torches that cast a bright, eerie glow and another pulsing light that seemed to eminate from nothing but everywhere.

I avoided looking at the mirrors, fearing the loss of control again, and focused on a massive stone altar—seven feet long, three feet wide, and three feet tall, its rounded corners worn by age. It rested on a stone slab extending two feet beyond its ends and a foot on each side, etched with bas-reliefs of the Evil Eye in the same blood-red hue.

Hooded figures stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the mirrored walls, their murmurs ceasing as we entered. They stood in silence, arms crossed, heads bowed. From their ranks stepped a figure distinct from the rest, clad in heavy robes and a silver chain bearing a large Evil Eye pendant. A stone crown, unlike any I’d seen, adorned his hood, centered with another Evil Eye. His movements were jerky, like a puppet pulled by unseen strings.

He bowed his head and gestured toward the altar. Sweat beaded on my face as the compulsion to obey surged, stronger than ever. Yet, in my terror, I found the will to resist. Our eyes locked—or rather, I stared into the shadowed void where his face should have been, unconvinced it was human. He gestured again, his motions erratic, and the hooded figures resumed their chant in a guttural, otherworldly tongue filled with harsh consonants and rare vowels—the language of the Second from my vision.

Their words transported me back to that flowing, alien landscape, its eternal hymns to the FIRST. My lips moved, mouthing their chant, praising the FIRST. My feet shuffled toward the altar, ready to embrace my fate, when Clarice’s hand yanked me back.
“Snap out of it, Payton! We need to get out!” she shouted over the rising cacophony. In her left hand, a snub-nosed revolver aimed at the crowned figure. “Let’s go! Now!”

Where did she get a gun? I wondered to myself, was this her plan all along? I never even knew she owned a firearm, but I was determined.

“We haven’t learned anything!” I yelled, my voice not entirely my own. “We came for answers! We need to know about the S’lc Sul’m! The X’rtujd know these things! They’ll usher in a new beginning, eternal peace under the FIRST!” The words poured from me as if another controlled my body, a stranger within me defying Clarice.
Her strength shattered. The strongest woman I knew unraveled, waving the gun wildly between the hooded leader and me, her eyes manic. “They’re controlling you. You’re becoming one of them. We have to leave, Payton. Now!”

My gaze drifted to the mirrors, revealing a nightmare. Instead of the hooded Disciples, I saw countless reflections of the monstrous creature from my first vision. Not one human reflection remained, except that of Clarice’s. Her eyes, fixed on the mirrors, saw the same horrors as I did. Then, slowly, she turned to me, her voice breaking. “Payton… why can’t I see you in the mirrors?”

The world trembled beneath me. I sank to my knees, glancing at the mirror to confirm the truth: I, too, was among the monstrous throng. Silently, I pleaded with Clarice, hoping she could save me. Her revolver leveled at my chest. I braced for the shot, closing my eyes, but the deafening blast spared me. The high priest had seized her wrist, twisting it until it snapped. Clarice screamed! She started to collapse, but he held her broken wrist, dragging her toward the altar.

She clawed at the floor, her fingernails tearing, as the priest struck her throat, silencing her. The Disciples chanted, “S’mnes min’me,” as he stripped her and laid her choking body on the altar. Raising his arms, he silenced the chant and bellowed, “T’IR er’ticx!”—HE will awaken. The words echoed fanatically. Then, “Or’gul x’t’mson at’soh!”—Taste our sacrifice. My body, no longer weeping, shouted with them.

As the altar’s symbols glowed with sickly colors, the priest roared, “A’nmo’ni S’UMIR!”—Let all be HIM! I stood, my tears dried, and echoed the cry, my gaze steady on the altar. A tendril that seemed to be equal parts ethereal and material erupted from the ancient stone slab. Lifting Clarice’s struggling body. Then more, and more of them appeared. She reached for me, helpless, as one final tendril pierced her chest with a visceral sound. Like that of an overripe fruit being crushed underneath, and the snapping of thick bones. The tendrils collapsed inwards over her now lifeless scared, yet judging eyes and pulled her down into oblivion to be with the FIRST.

Something snapped inside of me. I regained control of my body from my possesor and I collapsed, stunned. One by one, the Disciples removed their torches and filed out, leaving the altar’s fading glow as my only light. In darkness, I waited until dawn’s first rays touched my back. The mirrors still surrounded me. In a surge of rage, I seized the old sign outside and shattered the mirrors into countless fragments.

Unlike Hob, I didn’t run. I wandered from that place, broken. My soul lost alongside the truest love I’d ever known. I found myself at a police station, bloodied and battered. I tried to explain Clarice’s fate, but no one believed a “junkie’s” story. They found no evidence at the First Methodist Church, only my rosary, that I had dropped in the madness. They said the church had been abandoned for years. Suspected briefly of my Love’s disappearancee, I was released due to a “lack of evidence”, thanks to a court-appointed lawyer.

The doctors tell me that I suffered a sort of mental breakdown, unable to cope with reality, or a drug induced psychosis. They don’t understand that what I saw was real, and it left me shattered like the mirrors of the old church. I checked myself into a hospital, hoping to escape those visions, but the Second still find me.

They find me in every reflection. Try to take control of me once again, taking control of me from beyond our reality. I clutch the rosary given to me by Hob, but I think they’re learning that my god isn’t real unlike theirs. They try draw me to that formless, beautiful world; singing of the FIRST’s chaotic glory. The pull to return to that black bhurch courses through my veins with every heartbeat. Their cacophonous hymns echo in my mind in a never ending loop.

I can see it from my window still. The black church. Some nights I see the glow of torches both coming and going. It calls to me. The thing inside me wants to join them, but I have to resist for her sake. As long as I resist that means there is hope, and that is all I have left for me.

As I’m writing this, the Second inside my body has started singing. I know that sings with the others in the church. I’m tired. So tired. One day I will lose this fight, and join the ever growing congregation. I will be with my god. I will be with the FIRST. For now I play the role of Sisyphus and push my boulder out of spite.

If you find this story, and I am gone, you know where to find me. I will be there with the crowd. Please. Please kill me. Burn that place to the ground. Destroy the altar. It’s my only hope now. You are my only hope for release.

Have you ever seen yourself die?

For all of our sake, I hope not.

Credit: Jeremy Eckvald