Miasma

The mire invites all. In between the creeping of behemoth abominations and the glow of the will-o-the-wisps is a beckoning miasma of guilt, one which is universal in its reach and confrontational in its perversion. Its opaque waters are paved over with souls lost in their unconscious affinity for this endless field of bile. Soothing sounds of sentiment reverberate through twisted tree towers, spiralling inward into a pervasive symphony of idle cacophony. Civilisations lost lie forgotten in that bleak froth of oblivion.

It is on the outskirts of this desolate sea of detritus where we gather, forlorn in our desolation, desperate to escape that hellish carnival which plagues our homes. We evaded the piercing eyes of those seven diabolical brothers on the thirteenth night of their daemonic debauchery as we ran with great speed away from their blasphemous rituals. We knew not where we would end up in our adrenaline-fuelled haze, but for the first time since the carnival arrived in town, we had hope.

The mire invites all. We’ve all heard about this slimy no man’s land and the corpse party within; we all knew to avoid this place of death. It spoke to us as we ran, our frightful vanishing into the dark of night powered its suggestion, until we felt our legs carrying us not of our will. The longer we ran, the stronger its will became. We could not resist, and now we are fully under its power. There is no escape now. A spirit beckons us inward, into the heart of our hell, offering us everything we could ever want, offering us freedom from those cursed death-mongers invading our homes. Turn out the lights, reaper, as we fall into this heart-shaped abyss.