Hello, my friend.
Another year gone by. My, my, how time passes, eh? Spring turns to summer, turns to fall, turns to winter, turns to spring, and we are a year older.
So why don't you sit down for a bit? Let us entertain you as you entertained us in our youth.
Happy birthday, Gears, from all the things that go bump in the night.
Annually, we will make a special mention of the Cancer Research Institute each Gears Day. This is an American cancer research charity with a good reputation. Please consider donating.
Hands clasped slide across a beveled vest and slip into pockets made for postulating. Seventy eight degrees. Locked doors, no windows. Fifty two chairs, forty three filled. His shirt is white, free of sweat. His smile is warm. It is 9:15 PM on a Friday night.
“Take your seats. The sermon is beginning soon.”
He was told the walls were white. They’re yellow. Doesn’t matter.
“The orb rests close, friends, and we must make haste before they take it from us.”
Young men. Women. They’re huddled like sailors in the undertow. His ankle twitches. Too-tight shoes cut off blood to his feet. Numbness climbs his flesh and latches. People file in. Fifty two chairs, forty six filled. A drop of sweat lands on his lapel.
“My companions, my brothers and sisters, we are at an impasse. Bow-legged ticks are filling the halls of your government offices. Graingels are pickpocketing your hard earned money, dripfeeding themselves your spare change. A great, turbinding storm will come to pass and wash away all that is good from this world.”
Nonsense. Utter nonsense. Seventy nine degrees. Fifty two chairs, forty nine filled.
“What can we, the common man, do to stop it? If you have to ask that question, then their brain-jogging has already done its work. They’ve convinced you of your own ineptitude. They have convinced you of being a meat-human. They have convinced you that you lack a soul.”
A booklet in his pocket. Scrawls of terms and jargon. Gorgon’s spit and chimera’s breath. The realization of the American Dream. It all falls out of his mouth like sand.
“We, the ones who know, who are aware of the lies being fed to us, are beyond the scope of your local thoughtgroup. We have begun to ascend through the layers towards heaven as they are sinking further into hell. Further away from the light of the lord, Utu.”
A thump. A heartbeat somewhere near. His foot is dying. Cold flesh. His forehead weeps sweat. Eighty one degrees. Fifty two chairs, fifty filled.
“The orb emulsicates in the city hall, begging to be let out, for us to allow it ascension before it can be dragged to Satan's lap. And if we stay fast, those hopes will be answered. But in the face of unrelenting evil, how can we stay fast?”
Sun shines through window. Clap. Thunder. The undertow drags them back in.
“By letting ourselves reach a higher plane on this layer, we may take the orb to Utu and rid ourselves of the hellions that plague our lives.”
The floorboards throb. His arms are outstretched to either side. Fifty one pairs of eyes watch him. Fifty one pairs of feet tap the floor. Fifty two souls wait for him to finish
“Many of the meat-humans are deluded in their belief that we are the same as them. This gives us the luxury of choosing whether we will rule over them or if we will continue to ascend the layers towards greater extraterrestrial meat-things that we may control.”
They need it. Dominion over bosses and bullies and borrowers. It’s beyond want or thirst. It’s what they need so they don’t hang themselves. In a way, he was kind. Eighty nine degrees. Fifty two chairs, fifty two filled.
“Bawlers, brawlers, and bastards, they’ll try to steal whatever they can from you, but your physical belongings will lose all value soon enough. What you must focus on is giving all of yourself to Utu, giving all of yourself to the orb and to ascension.”
It is 9:30 PM. The sun consumes the window. Shoe grinds toes into mush. Fifty three souls. As he gestures, sweat-trail spins spider silk between upper arm and shoulder. Sliding hands clasped through each other over sweat stains into pockets.
“Beg of him, of Utu, to release us from these meat-chain-things and let us fly higher than we ever dreamed was possible. Let the orb fuel your flames and bring divinity unto yourself, not yourself unto divinity. We are deserving of greater purpose in this world than filanging and enthropping with the masses. And as we gather round close and breathe lightly onto each other–”
One hundred and three degrees.
No windows.
Locked doors. An unlocked door.
Fifty two chairs.
Fifty three filled.
The dam breaks.
“—know that your fellow man is with you, and embrace it. All.”
The sun came. Feeling returned to his foot, and disappeared from everywhere else.
It’s quiet, in this place.
This labyrinth of shifting styles, changing one room to the next, never sure on what it’s meant to be — but always off in enough details to set you on edge.
This place of unremembered events, where things are made before they’re made real; where the future waits for the present to find itself.
This dead end of a world that none were meant to have seen, to have walked; but where the unfortunate seem to find themselves anyway.
It’s quiet here, but it is not silent.
There’s that ever-present hum, that sharp & static buzz of false sunlight, which seeps into your mind like water through wood, eroding the boundaries of the soul in gradual waves.
There’s the sound of shoes against faded carpet, a muted staccato rhythm that rises and falls like the tides of an ocean not present, as the mind lapses into apathy & mania.
And there’s the breathing, too.
A wind that echoes wherever it can reach, and it reaches everywhere one can find; a sound intimately familiar, but magnified to an alien extent; a noise that occurs with enough regularity to fade into the background, if you’ve heard it long enough.
At least, until you hear something within it.
…
It’s quiet, in this place.
But it is not silent.
And it is not mute.
You ever felt like someone was watching you while you sleep?
I have. Almost every day when I was younger, in fact. I remember putting the covers over myself so I could hide from the monster staring at me. Of course, there was no monster, and my dad would get pretty sick of sleeping on my floor so that I could feel ‘safe’ from the monster under my bed, or the one in my closet.
Yeah, I was a paranoid kid, wasn’t I?
It worked out for me, though. I think it’s better if you’re more aware of your surroundings, you know? I still cover myself up when I sleep, not to hide from monsters or anything like that. It just feels comfy.
Yes, I do make room so I can breathe. I’m not dumb. Don’t worry, I’m getting to the interesting part.
There was this one guy that I came up with in my head who was supposedly the person watching me while I slept. Wide, bloodshot eyes. Long, greasy hair. A manic smile that never seemed to waver or even flinch. It’s like he permanently wore it on his face. I know, it’s ridiculous, but that’s what I thought of at the time.
He kept appearing in my dreams, too. It was the same sequence of events every time. He’d crawl out from under my bed, watch me for several minutes, then exit from my bedroom window. Now, mind you, my bedroom was on the second floor, so I guess the guy kept bringing a ladder with him or something each night.
What do you mean by that?
You’re kidding me.
So, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that there were at least five other kids in my area that had those same dreams, with the exact same guy with the greasy hair and that smile, and the same exit strategy and all?
Man, you’re funny. You’re just trying to pull my leg, aren’t you?
Missing person reports? Those same kids disappeared?
I don’t know what you mean by that.
If my bedroom window was open for even the tiniest bit every morning, I would know. Look, you must have a different guy, there is nothing similar between the guy from my dreams and what you’re saying.
That doesn’t make any sense. There’s no way they all imagined the exact same guy in their heads. That’s impossible. There has to be slightly different details, different eye color, different body type, like come on. It can’t be the same guy.
What did the ladder look like? I don’t know, grey? It’s not like I know any ladder brands off the top of my head.
They found one. 20 miles away, in a ditch.
Then why am I still here? Why am I the only one lucky enough to not have mysteriously vanished one day?
What difference does it make that they weren’t completely covering themselves up with a blanket and sheets?
Maybe he was finished. Maybe he was satisfied, and didn’t want me for some reason.
Or maybe he’s still watching me.
It looks like a dog that you once knew, but something doesn't fit.
It lives in cities, scattered amongst the strays, drifting between the alleyways, looking for something that it should never find. It is mangy, but groomed, skeletal yet strong; it looks like a dog, but you do not recognize it.
It will recognize you. It always does, it knows those who will see it before they do; it is inevitable, like the seasons turning, like day fading to night, it will be despite you.
It looks like a dog that once knew you, but it does not bark. It does not howl, it does not yelp, and it never whines. It breathes. The breath is how you will know that it is with you; always out of sight, and always panting. Like an organ with dents or an accordion with holes, the breathing is never steady, never slow. It exhales between your breaths, inhales the air you have given up.
It looks like a dog that needs you, but you cannot help it.
Once you see it, when you finally know it, when you can recognize the hitches in it's throat in the middle of your nightmares, it has marked you. On the third night of it following you around, it will stretch.
It looks like a dog and you wish you could forget it.
You are afraid of other dogs now. Afraid of what they know that you don't. You weren't afraid before, but they do not look like dogs anymore. They breath too steadily, walk to confidently, smell too alive; they live in the sun and you do not think that is right.
It looks like a dog, and as it watches you over the roofs, over the fences, through the windows into your building, you cannot stop seeing it.
It follows in your steps, drinks from your water, sups from your plate. It breathes your air, sleeps in your bed, and watches you while you walk. It speaks with your voice and you breathe with its' breath.
It looks like a dog, but you do not look like yourself.
It will never abandon you.
It will never leave you alone.
It will never look like a dog again.
I remember going to a special doctor one time when I was five, or maybe six. He only gave me one pill, and told me to take it when I got home. That same night, I recall having this really weird dream: I was watching this tennis match at the Wimbledon.
Except there was no umpire, no ball, and everyone else around were kids like me.
No one was cheering. No one was crying, shouting, screaming, nothing. Just dead silence as we watched these two, I think it was a man and a woman, go back and forth playing invisible tennis.
It felt like they were playing for hours. They just kept going and going and going… but no sound. Until suddenly, there was.
It started light; a grunt here, a curse there.
They kept playing.
Chests heaving, exhaustion setting in.
They kept playing.
Desperation to win, struggling to keep up, running to and fro.
They kept playing.
No one else made a sound. Just the players.
Eventually, one of them sprained their ankle or something and fell, their racket flying from away from them and losing. Immediately after that, I remember the dream turning to static.
For the rest of the night, I kept hearing the sound of rackets hitting balls and balls bouncing on a court floor. No matter what I did, I couldn't shake the noise. I couldn't sleep anymore, not peacefully.
The next morning, I remember finding a note under my pillow in my own handwriting:
"Don't tell mom about the dream."
Cite this page as:
"Surprise! Happy Birthday! Beyond the witching hour..." by Uncle Nicolini, from the SCP Wiki. Source: https://scpwiki.com/surprise-happy-birthday-13. Licensed under CC BY-SA.
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