Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.

After a repose of two hours, he crawled out from under the sheets, peeling the cold blankets from his sweat-dampened body. As he woke, the dreams, and the whispers from the dreams, gently evaporated under the light of his conscious mind. He remembered, though, remembered remembering.

The fading echoes of the whispers were growing louder every morning. Dawn hadn’t come yet, and he stood naked in his room, unfeeling toward the cold. He faced the empty white wall. In the dim light, it seemed bare, missing something.

He could almost hear the voices, no, the voice, again, the voice from his dream. It wanted him to fill the wall.

They watched. Tonight was the night, they hoped.

Half asleep, his body covered in goosebumps, he approached the wall. He would fill it, but with what? The whispers told him what to do. Biting his thumb, he tore open the flesh. They watched the young madman scrawl out his bloody message.

From behind the two-way mirror, they quickly analyzed the crimson stains, comparing the alien letters with the other messages.



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