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The sun hung low along the western horizon, painting the forest with fractured orange flames, and Imogene Tremly knew in her heart the minister would be dead before it rose again.
May the Old Ways guide our hands, let us see the lies above, and know our love below.
Somewhere, where his dreams still haunted him, and the darkness filled his lungs with the foul musty air of untold ages. That child was still in there somewhere, and he was screaming.
Old lies above, and true love below.
“All sinners will be saved, my child. All sinners will suffer.”
The tale was older than man, one of a god living within the earth, fluid like water and blacker than sin, a god of eyes and mouths drinking from the pool of sanity and tears of pain. A god speaking to men from below, teaching them its ways from beyond the cosmos, where time is a dream and space a vanishing memory.
The ash of charred remains and bones would fill his lungs, his beating heart slowing in the earth, suffocating in the bosom of a buried god.
“Nothing is eternal. Everything burns.”
So stupid, he told himself, the words echoing a mantra in his head to the pace of his frantic heart. So damn stupid. And he was, falling victim to the most cliched action this side of a slasher film: he’d heard a noise, and without thinking, gone off to investigate.
