Young Writers Society

4

Jacob opened his eyes, immediately and fully aware. He sat up on his couch, running his hands through his lanky, unkempt hair.

How long was I out? he wondered. He looked out the big bay window facing the street. It was still light out, with only the slightest hint of the oncoming dusk. Maybe only half an hour.

He turned and sat straight on the couch, knocking his current read onto the floor. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet. Jacob looked down, saw that it had landed open and read, perplexed, the only text on the page, scrawled in a way that reminded Jacob of his great grandfather's seemingly panicked strokes.

The text read: Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.

The moment he finished this nonsense sentence, Jacob became aware of a sound coming from his office. A squishing, wet sound, like a bunch of soaked sponges being squeezed in uneven succession. He turned and looked through the door leading into his office. He blinked and rubbed his palms against his eyes, sure that what he was seeing was a trick of the light.

He saw with confusion that the further into the office he looked, the darker it became, as though it were filled with a hanging smog that devoured any light near -

The box, Jacob thought. I knew it was hungry and now it's eating.

Suddenly Jacob's body stiffened and he rose from the couch.

No, stop! he begged.

Whatever force was now puppeteering his body ignored his plea. He turned toward the office and began walking. To Jacob it seemed as though he were floating, despite feeling his bare feet tread the carpet below him. It were as though his mind were seperate from his body, gliding along on thermals toward that dark doorway.

Jacob crossed the threshold and turned toward that revolting sound, but at first he couldn't pinpoint the source. The room's atmosphere was on a gradient - the closer to where the box had been, the less vividity and light there was. Things seemed to lose their cogency and color, taking on an ethereal, ghost-like quality, until you reached the stark black epicenter. As he gazed at the hole in reality before him, he realized that his office wasn't becoming darker - it was becoming nothing.

From that hanging punch-hole in reality he heard that sopping, slithering sound grow louder, closer.

Stop! No, don't let it through! was what Jacob wanted to say, but his jaw was locked and his vocal cords remained still. Not again... please, God, not again! His vision became smeared as tears filled his eyes.

From the nothingness before him, purple-green nubs began appearing, seeming to break through the blank space like an infected sore bursting and spilling its pus. The gleaming nubs pushed ever further into Jacob's side of reality, revealing long, slimey tentacles that writhed and slapped against each other, seeming to search the space they were entering.

Searching for me, Jacob thought. This is how it eats! God, it wants to eat me! His stomach lurched as though he'd gone over the precipice of a mile-high roller coaster. Despite commanding his body to turn and run, it remained in place, his muscles not registering his commands in the slightest. He was trapped as the tentacles drew ever closer, the suckers on each smacking open and closed and oozing black, oily sludge. Some suckers heaved and coughed, spraying this sick mess across bookshelves and stacks of paper that seemed to only half-exist. The contrast between the solid black grease and the tenuous, insubstantial surfaces it made contact with gave Jacob vertigo. He was fully panicked but unable to react or even to cry out.

A tentacle swung past his face and lightly tapped the skin on his neck. A shocking chill ran down Jacob's spine and, as though that touch had marked him, all of the meandering tentacles suddenly shot towards him.

In his mind he was screaming, but his body made no sign of his hysteria. The tentacles slapped against his chest, arms and legs and stuck, the suckers doing their business, seeming to drink in his very essence.

Jacob's gaze was locked onto the center of the hole that spawned the tentacles, despite his urgent signals for his eyes to look in every direction at once. A thin, horizontal white line creased across the empty space, and the top and bottom began to pull apart from each other to reveal a single, miniscule black dot in the center of a rounded white mound.

It was an eye, perfectly round and focused intensely on Jacob. For the observee, it was the last straw. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.

5

Jacob's screams were suddenly made vocal, and he found he could move. He heaved sideward to free himself of the tentacles, and then he was falling, if only for a moment. He landed chest-first on a plush surface. His wind ejected from his mouth in a heave and he opened his eyes in surprise, not knowing what to expect. He clawed around frantically as he regained his air, but slowly his panic faded as he realized what had happened.

It was a dream, Jacob thought, now on all fours beside his couch, his eyes, nose and mouth leaking their respective fluids onto the carpet below him.

God... this has to stop. I can't take it anymore.

He wiped his sleeve across his face and sat up, looking around the room and breathing hard. It was dark, with dawn peeking through the window and making vision somewhat useful.

Jacob was already running scenarios through his head on how to dispose of the box. He stood, grasping the couch coushin for balance. He swayed a bit, then went half-walked, half-stumbled down the hall and into his bathroom. He faced the sink and cranked both handles fully open, placing his hands below the faucet and cupping his hands. He splashed cold water onto his hot face and rubbed vigorously, attempting to cleanse himself of the nightmare of a lifetime. However, when he looked in the mirror and noticed what was wrong with his hair, he realized that the nightmare was only beginning.

"No... what the fuck!?" he exclaimed.

Numerous strands of his dark hair had gone paper-white, and the rest was going. He grasped handfuls of his hair, disbelieving what was staring him in the face.

"This can't... it can't be happening! I'm still dreaming!" Jacob exclaimed hysterically.

Cool it. Just calm the fuck down. Breathe. Jacob closed his eyes, breathing deeply and released his hair. He hoped without conviction that when he opened his eyes again, it would be back to its dark coloration. He narrowly parted his eyelids. Shit, still white.

He grasped the sides of the sink and looked himself in the eyes. I have to do something about this. But... I can't get rid of the fucking thing. It's going to escape, whatever the fuck it is, no matter where I stick it. I could fly over a volcano and drop it in, but it would only help whatever was in it get out.

Cthulhu. That's what's in the box. The name keeps recurring, in the real world and in my dreams... and it feels right. Jacob shuddered. They say that naming things that frighten you helps you deal with the fear, but it was having the opposite effect on him. The very fact that the thing that was pressed in the wax and that towered over skyscrapers in his dream had a name, and that Jacob now knew it, made him feel even more vulnerable. Now that he had identified the monster, it wanted him all the more.

Okay, so I can't get rid of it. My only other option is to try to prevent that thing coming through.

Jacob gave his reflection an unconvinced look, which it returned.

And just how do I stop a dark god from bursting into my world?

The notes. They said On Pandora's Box. Adrian Hothstead knew something and wanted me to know it, too.

Jacob switched off the faucet, then turned and left the room. He strode down the hall and into the living room, stopping before the eerie office.

No matter what it looks like, I'm getting those notes.

Jacob hardened his will and burst into the room, flipping on the light switch and looking across the office at his desk. On it, Pandora's Box sat guiltlessly, just a pretty thing on a cheap desk in an untidy room. Jacob self-consciously flushed at his own zeal.

Of course it looks like a box, the tentacles were just a dream. Maybe not for much longer if I don't find something in those notes.

Jacob's train of thought was interrupted when he noticed something missing from the room.

The hunger... I don't feel its hunger anymore.

Yeah, maybe it's asleep. I'm sure terrifying people is tiring business.

With that bit of levity, Jacob crossed the room and took the bundle of papers in his hand. He shot the box a loathesome look before turning and departing his office.

Jacob tugged on the cord hanging from a tall lamp next to his recliner and flopped into it. He gazed at the title of the bundle of papers, and his great grandfather's signature.

You'd better have some pertinent information in here, gramps. I think the whole universe depends on it.

He unfolded the papers and looked down the title page. The paragraphs were in a journal format, with dates and times copied before each entry. There were two entries on this first page.

6

June 7, 1964. 9pm.

Gregory and I have arrived at the excavation site in Punta Ararras. He's as excitable as usual, and demanded a personal tour of each dig site on the mound. I've elected to unpack and prepare for tomorrow morning. He'll give a detailed report upon his return, to be sure.

In the meantime, I've been speaking with the dig team overseer. He claims that on one particular site on the south side of the mound, the top of an archway leading into a chamber had been discovered. He's only been able to see small portions of the chamber, but claims to see a plethora of artifacts such as weapons and jewelry. If true, it'll make this trip wholly worthwhile. I eagerly await Gregory's report.

June 7, 1964. 9:45pm.

When Gregory returned, he was in an uproar.

"That sloppy lot, wreckin' the whole works! Tearin' up stone hither and thither! Where'd you find this crew, Adrian?"

"They're locals, except the overseer. He came highly recommended from Egypt. I couldn't get any of my American colleagues to partake.

"Bloggarts couldn't spare fifteen men? This is the dig of a lifetime!" Gregory's English accent almost became a parody when he was riled up.

"We don't know that yet, Greg."

Greg's face lit up. "But you ain't seen what I seen, Adrian."

"The overseer told me what they discovered. You saw into the chamber, then?"

"Aye, and what I saw made my pants a mite tighter. There was a crate in there what looked like it were wrought half outta gold."

I looked sharply at Gregory. "How large?"

"Oh, bout ye wide, ye tall" - Gregory demonstrated with his hands.

I leaned back in my chair, absentmindedly swirling a brandy. "Really... quite unusual for this region."

"You can say that again. What're you thinkin'?"

I didn't know what to think. Closer inspection would reveal much.

-

June 8, 1964. Noon.

There's something malicious about that box. Earlier this morning, the dig team excavated the earth in front of the chamber and Gregory and I entered. As I crossed the threshold, a strange sensation fell over me, like I was being intently observed.

"Do you feel that, Greg?"

"The only thing I feel is a gold medal for distinguished archaeological achievement in my future."

How could he not feel it? It was overwhelming. A sweat broke out of my forehead and I shot nervous glances around the room.

"C'mon, right over here," Gregory instructed.

As I neared the gold-lined box, the sensation grew ever stronger. Gregory squatted before it, brushing dust away. He craned his head around at me.

"Come take a look," he invited. I reluctantly came forward and looked around him, attempting to stifle my anxiety. I examined the box, the foreboding sensation ever increasing.

"These symbols... do you recognize them?" I asked.

"Never seen 'em in my life."

"Nor I." I squatted beside Gregory, gathered a bit of courage and ran my hand over the dark wood. It was strangely warm.

"It's far older than the other artifacts in this room," I said. "Perhaps thousands of years."

"Aye, and look here" - Gregory placed his hand over the lid.

"Don't open it," I said compusively.

Gregory gave me a sore look. "Aw, c'mon, Adrian, just a peek."

"Wait until we get back to base camp." In truth, I was stalling. I realize how mad this must sound, but the box frightens me. As it sits beside me now, I am filled with dread. This box was onced used for great evil, I feel - or perhaps contains such. I only pray this overpowering sensation fades soon. The brandy helps dull it, helps quite a lot.

Despite my trepidation, I am determined to uncover more about this artifact. I'll more closely examine it tomorrow.