Ghostwriting project for Ravens & Qrows. The theme of the project was simply "horror."
The Ancient Fear.
That is what the men of the village call it.
It has no name.
No face.
No fangs or claws or gnashing teeth.
No gaping maw to swallow whole.
No assortment of limbs to drag and lynch.
No form.
No shape.
Nothing.
It exists only in the dark corners of the earth.
It exists only in the furthest reaches of the shadows.
In tales and rumors.
Books and journals.
Paintings.
Depictions.
Symbols.
It exists only in one’s mind.
In one’s dreams.
And yet, it takes when it pleases.
And where the ones it takes goes, no one knows.
I was young, then.
Foolish then.
Naive.
I thought of it as folklore.
I thought of it as legend.
Chief Talak’tuk was a wise man. He protected me.
He hid the Ancient Fear.
Kept me from knowing.
He believed if we forgot, that it would leave.
It would stop taking.
He believed if we kept the children from knowing, it would be no more.
And yet, children are curious things.
What they want to know, they will know.
What they want to find, they will find.
And what wants to be found, will be found.
It is true — the Ancient Fear does not exist.
Not in our world, at least.
It is only as real as one believes.
Only as real as one allows it to be.
It is no more than a shadow in the corner of one’s eye.
A shade of green not right in the distant trees.
A figure in a dark room.
A silhouette by dusk.
Fear manifest.
And yet, it terrorizes my village.
It terrorizes my people.
It has, in my time.
And the time of my father.
And his father before.
Children disappear.
Men do not return from hunts.
Women vanish in the dead of night.
I sit now, in my library.
I sit now, by candlelight, cursed with this knowledge.
I sit now, alone.
The shadows to my back twist.
The ceiling above smiles and laugh.
The floors below gaze and blink.
I sit now, alone.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Obsession is its weapon.
Curiosity our downfall.
I was young, then.
Foolish then.
Naive.
I thought myself strong.
I thought myself the one to stop it.
I thought myself a hero.
I was not.
I never was.
I looked for it.
I looked for so long.
So hard.
And instead, it found me.
Our village is old.
Our history is long.
We have fought countless wars, and we have survived for generations on this land.
And yet, how can we fight an enemy that does not exist?
How can we hurt what does not live and breathe?
It is a virus.
An illness with no cure.
A deadly plague in the air we breathe and the words we speak and the thoughts we think.
Even now, my fingers tremble and shake.
I can feel it.
Here.
Now.
The Ancient Fear.
It has found me.
And I do not have long left.
I tell myself I do not believe.
Truly.
I tell myself it to be nothing more than a fairytale.
A fiction.
A rumor.
A story.
But I do.
I fear I do.
I believe.
And it knows.
It knows I believe.
It taunts me now, in my wife’s voice.
It taunts me now, with my child’s image.
It has taken them.
My wife, last winter.
My child, yesterday.
And now, it comes for me.
I sit here, not alone.
Not anymore.
And I do not dare turn.
This journal will be what is left of me.
The last I leave to this world.
My legacy.
And I am ready, now.
I do not fear death.
Men die, always.
Men die, in the end.
But words do not, do they?
Words are forever.
Words are eternal.
And so long as they are—
So too will I be.
So too will I live.
So tell me now—
Human.
You unfortunate soul.
Do you believe in me?
