Shadow of the Gathering

Between the varied pages as they become from them being in the pages of a journal as one looks upon them. As from where they were written as one looking back at those pages which tell of the whispers in the dark, being in the means of the time when they remembered the old ghost stories that were told to them in their youth. Where it would in the memory that one does not remember being from the descriptive of their dream, as from the sleep that follows into the dream fading from the places which draw from the distint slumber. The thoughts from them as they shape them from the dream impending inside. From the fading dream as becomes from the parable told from shadow, as they would become in the eyes as I would descend into the fading sleep. In the becoming as what would be inside the dream-infested slumbered thoughts while it is in the dream as it remains among the psyche.

Where the dream shall take into the details from the embers that draw from the depts of a winter nightfall, that it is seen from the waters below — which it is seen among the patterns which are there. Being it is from there which I draw from them in this journal as they are written, where the dream which came about would be about the year of 1993. It was in there which in the waters staring back that I felt what was below — beneath the cold of the winter nightfall is where it is staring back. From the hours that drip further as drops of blood hitting the water, being as one could feel the evidence of Dagon dragging the waters below. Further as from where it draws from the details, drawing further into the nightmare as one writes them out describing the presence of the Fish-God. Beneath the pages as they were penned of them in a careful hand in a notebook as they were transcribed to a word processor. As it would draw from them – that I would write with nervous hand among the blasphemied revelations falling into the dream-infested sleep. In the thoughts as they would be in the dreams as they echo the color out of space, drawn in the echo of time while I look beyond the waters of the lake. Describing in accordance to the letters received from the correspondence who live in Innsmonth, and what they were writing were of the same thing I describe of the nightmares becoming. In the dreams as they echo the journals of Randoph Carter of many years ago in Providence, Rhode Island, the nightmares here as they would be observed off the Des Plaines River in Joliet.

Further deeper into the nightmare as one would see them — the children as they would walk out of the waters with gills on their chest. In the possible fears drawn of the nightmares, walking into the deep of the waters drawn out of them where the children are walking out of Lake Michigan along the Racine and Chicago shores. Of the places where they drawn from the winter cold of the waters which they were able to adjust to the cold death air. Places drawn in the skies covered by the darkness of the winter skies becoming the echo of the dreams as they were described and the letters as they were received from Innsmonth. As from the Chicago shores the nightmares are drawn from the dream-infestest sleep — draws from them being the prayers spoken by the Cthulhu cult. Where they see and observe of the horrors becoming, that comes in the memories of the Great Old Ones – where they lay not dead, but dreaming. As from the becoming in the words describing of what I saw from the absolute horror — grotesque figures waking around with tenticles where arms were; the appearence of human but yet they had the inhuman traits. That would be drawn from the sleep being among the blasphemouos whispers, as from time as the letters from the Innsmonth correspondence was close by along with the journal penned of the nightmares in the dream-infestest sleep. From the letters years past of Randoph Carter where a friend of his made his way to Chicago after those years ago after seeing what I described here in the nightmares; where they would see beings with gills on their chest. In the darkness that draws from the sleep while I describe of the detail – during the eyes as they are seen through my own.

It would be from my Racine, Wisconsin, hotel room that I am writing this narrative out and the dream that infested a drug-induced sleep the night prior in Wintrop Harbor, Illinois. In the points of the varied places within the nightmares as they are written in the dreams as they echo the pages as they were inked in a journal. The horrors which drawn of the places that I have never visited but felt that I had been there before in another time, where the dreams would be the most evident of the presence of Dagon were there – while it would be among the offspring of the Fish-God. Where I woke in the darkness of the room – with all the backpacking equipment close by, in a hard spell of coughing and illness that became of me without a sheer sign of explaination. As I fumbled around in the darkness, pulled out the letters from the bed stand that I was still covered up to my neck with the bed covering that I packed. In the time gathering, the dream as it festers alone in the mind with the state of mind being in the question.

Where I gathered some of my composure back before I fell back into a state of sleep, the covers were still around me as I zipped myself into the bedroll. The dream that was there was the haunting memory of what was there in the mind while I slept there within the mid-darkness. Of the place where I wandered up to was 87.8 Degrees West Longitude, and 42.7 Degrees Latitude — near the place where I called camp for one of the nights up in Racine. Following the directions of the letter which were sneaked into my backpack when I was not looking along with a map that was there – along with some sketches that were described of the being with a squid-like head. As that was the thought in my mind when I was walking along the darkness of the shores, that being in the dream when I slept in the Wintrop Harbor hotel those many days earlier.
From the sharp pain that was there in the back areas – the pain from the accident which plagued me so many years earlier in 1990 where a black car nailed me without warning, as to the day close to when a stranger placed the directions and map into my pack. That day was November 20, 1992, and it was close to January 1993, when I made the way up to the places what were described in the letter and the enclosed journal what was belonging to Randoph Carter. In the places which being there in the mind — those letters which were hand delivered from a person who once lived in Providence and Innsmonth. Drawn from the letters as invoking the cycle of the nightmares that were there – being in the dream that everything was raining harder than hail, the snow was colder than death itself. In that cold which came the beings out of the water — Dagon’s children. Where one cannot tell from the beginning of the nightmares, or of when the dream-infested sleep had stirred to the waking memory. Proportions of the paramonting horror that draws from the nightmares before ones sleep, as to which everything around had an eerie calm to them.

“God damn it – what is going on around here, can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” I demanded, and at this time there was a tone of horror to my voice. That where it had the eerie calm was in a deafening silence as the blasphemous whispers were growing louder still. Where I was walking, and ended up bumping into someone in the street — turned out the person had their jaw missing – like it was ripped out from the socket. His hands were missing from the sockets – appeared as someone cut them off and leaving nothing but the bones of the hands. In the streets where the hybrid children with the gills on their chest, and the skies which the darkness grew produced rain with glass breaking force. It was looking at the what happened to that one man who was there – aged in his mid 20s. “What the fuck!” I whispered to myself and trying to hold back the vomit, “Jesus Christ, this is disturbing. Oh my God, what is going on here — these beings are not even human, as they were from a place that was not of this world. Almost as they were born of hell.” As from where I bolted to the near where the library was at along the Racine, Wisconsin, shore — tapped on the shoulder of a woman, a police officer, “Officer – could you help me here, I found a man walking around with his hands torn off the flesh.”

She did not respond just gave me a blank stare and opened her mouth where a series of tenticles came out of the place. Four pairs of pale blue which appeared like they were part of a squid – as they got closer, I found myself waking up in the darkness of the room. From the cool air which draws from them would invoke the dreams as they wind further into the horror that becomes inside the dream-infested slumber. That when I woke, it was back in the room of the hotel in Wintrop Harbor, Illinois. As from the places that drawn to them – from the dreams that echo the pages in the journal that were written a few years later from when I recieved, and from the window it continued to rain as it did within the dream. Of the dream that I describe being as it was from the horrors that remained of the city, as from the description inside which echoed the city without a name. It would be among the dream that I would with care and a calm hand pull out the journal that is in the backpack and still in sleeping bag wrote as much of the detail as possible from the awaking. That it would be in silient ticking of a clock inside my mind which says of the details of the dream as it was there – from the place that draws from them in the letters as enclosed from Randoph Carter’s jouranl. I was using the dream and the letters as cross-reference as I would write of them here. Where this would take from the dream as it would create the grotesque plot which it would draw from them. In the places of being which were there as gathered around in the streets while it rained so hard that the drops had shattered the glass from cars. Being in the eyes that gather among the dreams as what the moon brings – from where I hate it, the nightmares that come when the shadows of them are there.

Of the things that come about when the moon awakens from them. In the dark which crawls among the night being where the waters in a few miles from the place which I lay my head being which the being with the head resembling a squid looks on from the waters below. As from where the waters cast below, which the place of the hotel was about a five block radius. It was an old place which was similar to a studio apartment. The bed was by the door and the sink was in an eye shot of the place. My cough medicine was at reach for when I started to have a coughing spell or when I had a series of headaches that would bring about the nightmares without their end. That from the dreams which the journal of Randoph Carter, and the letter from Innsmonth would be the oocurring thing. That cocurrent thing that became the evident detail of the dream as it was there. In which the places that were there of the letter and journal that they were written – the Nameless City were the thing that was mentioned on both cocurrences. As from the period of the dreams as they would echo the events that had not of happened yet, which comes in the times of the pages of Randoph Carter’s journal — as the nightmares become the reoccuring cocurrence. Where the dreams as they fall deeper into the slumber — as which is seen in the nightmares as the shadows gathering. In the places as they were of the becoming — from the nightmares as they fester in the shadow of time within the winters as they bare the life of the fears inside. Where it would be from the dream that I describe of these details – in a groggy body that the hands would write them out under a pages of a journal and the light of a street light outside of the window.

From place of knowing it would be in the pounding of horror that is heard of my heart as I woke from the dream — the horror telling of the silence which brings from the eerie calm that shows after what the moon brings. As which I pen here — of the details that I know which I am frightened to fall asleep into because I knew that the dreams were there deplicting the horrors as seen through my eyes describing the acts done by the children of the Fish-God. “Those whispers — shit, where are they coming from,” I said to myself as I looked out the window of the place. While as they would congregate in the rain — like they were taking in the water like they were fish in the lake but what showed from the horror as the gills revealed themselves on the people gathering in the night. Where they would be watching from the window and walking closer to the place – and one hand goes thru the window trying to grab at my throat. In the places where the horror arises in the rains while the hours wane into the full moon, where the nightmare is there as I fall in and out of conciousness. As their tenticled hand got closer to my throat — found myself awaking with a hard gasp once again and to some hard coughing. Horror which grows further into the depths of the dreams as they would be drawn into the pages of a narrative; from the dark genesis becoming.

Where I woke again in the darkness the horror is what remains in the memory. Where I exit the cabin which I slept to take a look outside from it — where it is convincing myself of what I dreamed was just what it was, a dream. That where my sleep gathers in the shadows waiting to begin once again and the horror that becomes among the minions of Dagon. That in the dreams which are there makes one want to look for a Holy Bible because the horror that was there, appeared all too real to the mind as it was the echo of the Great Old Ones looking on. As the fear touches ones body as a cold winter’s wind, the kind of winter that would come within the skies of a Chicago nightfall. Becoming of them as time gathers in the winter’s darkness where the dreams gather deeper still in nightmares as they remain. In places of where they were written from the journals, as I had awakened — Randoph Carter’s journal had disappeared without a single trace. It was like it wasn’t even there at all. The journal — gone, as it was just part of the dream itself but the letters which were received from Innsmonth were the thing that were still there. Horrors as they were there in the mind as what was there while I checked out of the hotel room to go on the next part of the trip — giving the key back to the hotel clerk, had the gills under his shirt like he was one of the hybrid children from the waters below. The letter he said came from Pickman because the dreams that he had wrote about, were not dreams but real. While I exited the place — there was a man who had no jaw and hands which were ripped off at the flesh of his wrists; leaving nothing but the bone.