Oc'thadr'vhis: The One Beneath the Ogallala

My uncle was a peculiar fellow and a recluse. He would hardly go to family functions, and when he did attend the one-off Thanksgiving dinner here or a Fourth of July there, he would scarcely mingle with the rest of the family. My mother was more attentive to him at these family gatherings, offering him food to take home and asking him questions about his love life and work life. I could see that she loved it when he would attend, for she took every opportunity to converse with him and learn about what was new, as he would hardly answer his phone when she would call. He was a brilliant man, as he was well-read, knew how to articulate his thoughts, and had an extensive knowledge of agricultural practices and irrigation.

He was not always like that, though; he was lively at one point in his life and carried significant influence when he was in a room. I remember when I was young, on the car ride to Oakphur one time, that we stopped to meet him at the university. I was told then that he was giving a 'big talk' about different ways to drill and how he was leading the way on how we access more water and resources from underground. I did not know what all that meant back then, and quite honestly, I still don't know what it means today. My young child brain could not comprehend the fact that water flowed freely underground in the dry, barren lands of the high plains of Texas.

He taught for a while at the university in Oakphur until I was a high school sophomore. That is when my mother informed me that he had been laid off from that position. After that, abnormal events occurred, and that is when he turned into the queer sort that I last knew him as.

For months, he would call my mother, talking about weird dreams and voices he would hear at night—voices that would surround his homestead and talk 'gibberish', as he would say to her. Of course, my mom automatically thought that the stress of losing his teaching job was causing this sort of psychotic breakdown. Still, the drought upon us, which caused many farmers, including himself, to lose the value of their crops, was also a factor that my mom considered. We became accustomed to his new way of being after a few years had passed. My mother was the one out of the rest of my aunts and uncles who assisted him the most. My father did not like that my mom would spend energy trying to be a support for my uncle, saying things like, 'He brought this on himself,' and 'His madness can spread.'

When my uncle passed away, despite my father wanting to cut ties with him when he was alive, he felt great sorrow and tried his best to comfort my mom. His perplexing life did not stop the Throgmortons—my mother's side of the family—from coming together in mourning and recognizing his brilliant mind and the important work he had accomplished.

He never married and never fathered any children. My extended family did not know what would become of his property. So it was shockingly surprising when I received news that he had left in his will that his homestead on the outskirts of Oakphur and the ten-acre farming land he owned would be handed over to me. My mom was delighted that it would be passed down to good hands, but my father was suspicious and tried to talk me into selling the property as quickly as I got my hands on the deed.

Many conversations were had with my father about the responsibilities bestowed upon me. I agreed with him about many points, especially the fact that I had no clue about farming or operating farm equipment. I was fresh out of college with a degree in business administration and had hopes of moving to a bigger city; maintaining a farm was not really my desire. My mother, on the other hand, kept telling my father to stop pressuring me into selling the property and to just keep it. I was unsure of what I wanted to do with it, but whatever choice I made, there was one task that I wanted to accomplish, and that was to go see this homestead for myself. My father did not like the idea of me visiting the property; he commented on the strangeness of what others had said about the farmers in that area. I still wanted to go, though.

I was appalled when I first laid eyes on the land. The two-story wood siding home needed a new coat of paint, and the dried cotton stalks surrounding the scenery did not do much to help in making the place vibrant. The soil was cracked as far as I could see, and the center pivot irrigation lines looked as if they had not been moved in months.

The inside of the home itself was dusty, and the foul smell from all the unwashed dishes and unthrown trash lingered heavily. The wooden floors and stairs creaked constantly, and all the windows were nailed shut. There were two rooms upstairs filled with boxes of items related to his work, journals, reports with data on them that I did not understand, and a shelf with strange books that I had never seen, or at least I had never seen at any university library. What made my gut feel uneasy was the peculiar writing on one particular wall of the first room. Fantastical symbols and markings that I did not recognize, the markings were in no specific order, and did not look like letters from any lexicon spoken around the globe. I must admit that I shed tears right there because I could not fathom what my uncle had been going through, a brilliant man losing his mind, living all alone, all while trying his best to keep it together.

After regaining my composure, I noticed that the second room was filled with stacks of more boxes, some containing books, while others held printed papers of scientific articles. When I found the master bedroom, I saw similar markings of those fantastical shapes. This was the actual room where he slept. His room was fully furnished, and in the corner was a desk with a high-spec computer system. I recognized the monitor on the oak desk and was impressed that, despite his severe mental illness and financial issues, he was still able to organize his expensive luxuries. I wanted to leave his room after a while; it was unsettling. There was part of me that imagined he would walk in, asking why I was snooping.

I explored the house some more and found the entrance to the basement. I was hesitant to walk down the stairs to the basement and turn on the light because the pungent smell of stale urine and fresh fish made me cover my nose quickly and gag. I had never encountered such a strong pocket of ammonia. After my nose quickly acclimated to the scent, I also registered a sulfuric, salty smell. It reminded me of the ocean for some reason. I became…petrified, as if I were being watched. I closed the door to the basement and rushed outside. The hairs on my body stood straight up, and I frantically wiped my goosebumps as if I had walked straight into a spider's web.

Before I left to go back home, I walked around outside the property making mental notes of what seemed out of place or in need of maintenance. I soon came upon what seemed like an unfinished well. Various tools were laid around the hole; there was a skid steer with an auger bit, and an old flatbed truck with a large vertical pipe pointing high in the sky. The large metal piping at the end of the flatbed truck was a driller, a very long driller. The truck was rusty, and the tires had smooth parts on them. The skid steer seemed like it was forced out of retirement from the junkyard it was waiting to die at. They were left there to get baked by the sun. But the hole that was present before me proved that these old tools still had life in them. I inched closer to the hole. The diameter was about four feet, and the bottom of the pit was nowhere near the surface. All I saw was a bottomless abyss, a void that staring at it for mere seconds made me contemplate my very existence as if I wanted to see what would happen if I just jumped.

I crouched down and got a handful of soil and rocks, and let them fall slowly from my palm. I did not hear anything, not a splash of water or a thump of the stones hitting hard soil; there was silence. I stood up, forced myself to walk away before I did anything foolish, and focused my energy on what I wanted to accomplish in the meantime, while I decided what I wanted to do with this land.

For two weeks, I made the trip back and forth from my parents' house to my uncle's, carrying various cleaning supplies and a firearm to make the place more hospitable and ease my nerves while I stayed there and began sorting through his belongings. I wanted to keep the things that I felt held sentimental value, and sell what I thought would best benefit someone else who understood the same subjects as my uncle.

I began by cataloging the magazines and articles he had written, placing them in piles and exploring ideas for what I wanted to do with them. The items I was cataloging were quite typical of what you would expect from a retired professor turned farmer. This included many writings criticizing subsidized farming, the patenting of seeds, the benefits of deep drilling for more water, and aquifer preservation.

I found a handwritten note on a piece of paper that had been folded; the edges indicated that it had been torn from a journal. My uncle wrote about hiding corn seeds, how to dry them, and where to store them for future harvests. The note included a footnote stating, "They will not make me buy new seeds." I found it odd, but soon thought that this was all part of his delusions since I found many small notes, as mentioned before, about preserving seeds and how he knows better than any other of those 'hooked nose yids from the seed companies,' and 'honky cracker hayseed bastards,' as it seemed like he liked to call various groups of people. What I found seemed to contain valuable information, but there was also a lot that my uncle wrote that I did not understand. I was learning a lot about him and would then think about my mom and how she might never have seen this side of him. It seemed he really cared about the work he did, albeit letting his deranged thoughts get the better of him.

However, my current confusion began when I came across an unlabeled box. Upon opening it, I was relieved that it did not hold similar papers and notes. The eerie artifacts and trinkets inside the box served as a palate cleanser to the overly mundane task of paper sorting. They did not overwhelm me with dread at first, but it was only after that that my curiosity became my bane.

Jade stone statuettes were neatly placed inside the box, and each one was unique in its craftsmanship. I assumed they were handcrafted because of the odd kinks and unaligned symmetry on each statuette. They were different from each other, exhibiting asymmetrical proportions that made the caricatures appear hideous. I must admit that while I was inspecting them, I felt as if I had discovered stolen golden treasure. Yet, I quickly became enamored by their peculiar representations. I was drawn to the bulbous eyes of some with more than one pair of nostrils, like the nares of a fish, while most of the statuettes showcased wide mouths, with some even having their mouths slightly ajar. I took note of the tiny details of their teeth, crafted as if they were a mold of an actual creature. Humanoid in orientation, some showcased webbed feet as they were crouched, hugging their legs like perched gargoyles. One of the statuettes reminded me of an elephant, but with extra tiny trunks hanging like whiskers on its upper lip.

There was a darker-shaded statuette; it was heavier and larger, and something protruded from its face. Upon further inspection, I noticed that a rot had consumed the stone from the inside—a violet splotch growing inside the chondrichthyan figurine. I was enamored with its saw-like horn protruding from its narrow snout and the long, slim tentacles emerging from the various slits carved into all sides. The tentacles surrounded its head like a shoal of cephalopods trying to force their way out through the bony face. The body of the statuette was carved in a slouched position, with all six of its limbs slightly bent and a hunched posture that protruded like a hill peak but had been continuously pressed into an uneven mound of dirt. The large, proportioned cetacean tail of the carved object was off-putting and frightening, evoking the imagination of what precisely the carver of this stone was trying to depict.

I cannot describe the markings I found all over the base of the statuette, but the markings matched what my uncle had written on his walls. I took time and tried to make sense of it by pairing characters that appear and placing an English letter with it. I do not know why I did this, but I felt compelled at that time to figure out these strange markings. In the span of four days, I could not find anything online or find a pattern. I was drawn to these statuettes; my mind played some tricks on me during these four days, when I swore that I could hear some strange whisper around the house. I thought it was stress because my throat was becoming dry and itchy the more I stressed over the weird markings, and I became excessively thirsty. Luckily, I always had a few bottles of water in my cooler, as I was unsure about the quality of the tap water.

After coming to my senses and realizing I was wasting time, I decided to put all the strange findings that resembled this bizarre collection into the 'sell' pile. I did not want anything to do with it and was not interested in indulging in any odd hobbies that my uncle might have had more than I had already done.

After cataloging and organizing most of the boxes, I quickly made use of his computer and uploaded pictures and descriptions of the items I put on the 'sell' pile to my eBay page. Within seventy-two hours, I received bids for all of the statuettes that I had uploaded. Along with the statuettes, I also uploaded other items, such as textbooks and instruments that appeared useful to someone who knew how to use them, but they were not receiving any attention. I found it odd that the same user had placed a bid on all of the jade figures. Niche oddities attract the most attention from collectors who are always on the lookout. I suppose I have never paid attention to my own mind when performing such tasks.

I was excited to see these things get some attention so quickly, so I let the auction run its course to see how many more bids I would receive. Not even twelve hours later, I received a direct message from a bidder inquiring about the jade statuettes. It was the same person who had placed bids on all of them, and they were impatient about the auction and wanted to share details on how I could ship the statues to them at my earliest convenience. They were ready to offer me thousands of dollars and asked questions about how I came about such items. I was taken aback by such an eager offer and divulgence of information. I became wary that this could be a scam, the bidder assured me this was no jest and sent their email if I wanted more information on them and why they wished to obtain such artifacts.

I have to admit, I was curious about the importance and value these statuettes could hold, or what kind of collector's items my uncle was into. But every time I searched for any information on these caricatures, I found nothing and no mention of such collections.

I imagined some nobody on the other side of the email exchange with this eager buyer, but it wasn't so. I was dumbfounded when this person introduced himself as a professor from Northeastern University. His name was Dr. Pierce, an anthropologist who studied forgotten cultures and was always on the lookout for oddities, such as the statuettes I possessed. I spent time researching this professor; I even read some of his articles on archaeological finds and found some videos of his lectures. His voice was slow and raspy; I imagined he was a smoker, well into his late fifties and early sixties, judging by his unkempt grey hair and mustache. He had sunken eyes and dark bags under them.

Since I was able to confirm his identity, I felt comfortable speaking with him on the phone. After I told him about how I came across these items and how my uncle had many more peculiar things I was rummaging through, he quickly remarked that he wanted to meet in person instead. He was willing to offer me a large sum of money and wanted to book a flight to Texas as soon as I was ready to welcome him.

I got nervous about having a stranger from far away come and rummage through my uncle's possessions. I started thinking about him, about him getting his will situated, believing that I was the only one responsible for taking care of all of this. Despite all that, I did not understand why, though. At the moment of letting things fall where they may and letting someone else who has a more profound appreciation for what he had, part of me wanted to tell my uncle, "I'm sorry, but I really don't care about any of this."

I spoke with Dr. Pierce about the plans for our meeting and what day I could expect him to arrive. Before Professor Pierce made his way to Texas, I took it upon myself to arrange things in a manner in which he could peruse through all the oddities. I put everything else that I did not want to sell in separate storage. I fought off the hesitation to invite a stranger to examine my uncle's belongings when seeing multiple grimoires with handwritten notes featuring the same lettering I had mentioned before. I realized that whatever this hobby was, it was all interconnected.

While enjoying the chore of arranging everything, there came a loud rapping from the front door of the home. At first, I thought it was one of my parents who made their way to check up on me or spend some time walking around the property. I did not expect to be treated to unpleasant features only a blind mother could tolerate. The malnourished lifeform smiled at me, its maw spread wide with its brown, stained teeth showing—albeit its teeth looked very straight and strong. It greeted me and told me that it had not seen any activity at the Throgmorton farm since Herbert—my uncle—had passed away. He introduced himself as Charles West, one of my uncle's neighbors. The years of farming showed on this old man, as his skin was riddled with sun freckles and wrinkles. His shirt was stained with spots of chewing tobacco, and the leather on his boots peeled from the toes, showing the steel-toe plating. He was curious as to who had moved to the new property. After a few minutes of him reminiscing on the conversations he would have with my uncle at the local coffee shop, I unexpectedly told him I was his nephew. He extended his condolences and shared that he regretted not being able to go to his funeral.

After several more minutes of stories, where my uncle would come up with ways to preserve seeds, work on remote irrigation monitoring systems, or find water in times of drought. Mr. West mentioned gatherings of matins from folks around the outskirts of the county and people coming together to "see what we have been gifted." I started to close the door when he stopped it with his foot and asked me if I had drunk from the new wells my uncle had dug. I didn't give a quick response; I wanted to run to my bag, get my handgun, and tell him to leave the property. His oily skin and weird smile made me uncomfortable. Before I could take such actions, he assured me he just wanted to make sure I knew that the water was safe to drink. I nodded and told him I had drunk from the sink and used the water for cooking. The truth was that I had not cared to think about whether the tap water was contaminated or not; I would bring my cooler of refreshments and microwavable food. Mr. West was quick to say that the tap water for the home comes from the small reservoirs, preserving the old aquifer water. He wanted me to know that my uncle had built new wells around the property with much better water, water that comes from deeper, fuller aquifers, suitable for farming. Before he left, he mentioned that my uncle had helped other local farmers drill below for this newfound aquifer, which had saved many of their farms. He was indebted to the Throgmorton farm. His protruding, doll eyes, skinny, narrow nose, and hunched back made me wonder how such a feeble creature could be a farmer. He pulled his foot back from the door quickly and scurried to his rusty truck.

When Dr. Pierce arrived in Texas, we made arrangements to meet at a local restaurant, and then from there, I would give him a ride to the property. In person, I could see his skin was dry and flaky, and he had profound wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and forehead. While we ate, he was very eccentric and asked about what my uncle did for a living and if I knew the circle of people he kept close by. The professor would also ramble about upcoming articles he was working on and his recent trips to the Middle East. He was quick to cut up thin pieces from the tobacco plug he carried and pack his pipe, not considering those around him.

On the ride to the homestead, he continued to ask about my relationship with my uncle. I believe he wanted to know why I was entrusted with such an inheritance. When we were there, he was astonished by the collection of grimoires and statuettes before his eyes. He muttered words beneath his breath, his fingers stumbled ungracefully among all the artifacts as if he were afraid someone else was going to come and take them away from him. He walked around the table like a child enamoured in a candy store. Picking up one item, flipping through the pages of one of the books, while placing said item he already had in his hand, quickly grabbing another one, hyperfixated not to miss a second of the present moment.

This continued for several minutes before he said a phrase I could not understand. He rummaged through his knapsack and pulled out a checkbook.

"Your uncle was a well-educated man," he said while writing on the thin paper.

He tore off the check and handed it to me. I couldn't believe the amount. I was certain he had made a mistake, but he assured me he did not. I jokingly made the comment that he was giving me an offer well above a down payment on the property we stood on, but he stated he was only interested in the artifacts and writings that lay before us.

"Do you have any idea of what your uncle has handed down to you?" Dr. Pierce asked me in a concerned tone. I could not answer him, for I felt uncomfortable gazing at his wrinkled, coarse fingers caressing the tan pages of a grimoire. He took a deep breath, put his pipe on the table, and let his head fall backwards. He then looked at me with a tired gaze.

"Thaarr'rith kthaadr'endirh Oc'thadr'vhis"

Those were the guttural sounds I heard coming from his mouth. I shivered and wiped my arms to smooth out the chicken skin that now covered my being. I was not sure why that instance frightened me, but I felt a heavy weight upon my shoulders. I felt vulnerable, seen, naked, like this old man knew of my sins that I have yet to confess. He continued saying.

"Oc'thadr'vhis"

"Oc'thadr'vhis"

"Oc'thadr'vhis"

Then he stopped, he yawned, rubbed his eyes with excessive force, and then picked up his pipe again. This outlandish behavior displayed before me made me question every choice I had made to put myself in that exact moment. I was afraid, but also disappointed, at the thought of dealing with these strange occurrences if I wanted to preserve my uncle's memories. I asked him what he had uttered and why he spoke it in such an intimidating tone.

"I have studied tribes in Bolivia and Brazil," said Dr. Pierce after yawning some more.

"Tribes that have worshiped gods of old. On top of ruins that predate known history, they make their sacrifices. Around ancient monoliths depicting indescribable forms, they somberly chant," he brooded and breathed heavily, as if overcome by some unexplainable darkness that squeezed his torso tighter and tighter.

"They drink the nectar of those who lie asleep, for they were present before the stars. They become hybrid children, praying to the crawling chaos underground. Time has passed, is now, and will come. The stars will align, either tomorrow, next year, or next century. Eons pass, even death will cease, but a hunter of the shadows will rise."

He put the grimoire down and picked up the larger statuette with the rot inside.

"Those who do not understand will say a fearless wretch, before being drained of their sanity. Those who have heard and dared see with the nectar will chant Oc'thadr'vhis…here I am."

I wiped my brow and looked around to turn the ceiling fan on since I noticed I was sweating excessively.

"The nectar," he mumbled while still inspecting the statuette. "For one to know, one must have drunk the nectar."

I asked him what he was talking about, but before my rationale could fall upon me, and remind me of how careful I should be around eccentric people. Dr. Pierce said, "I…I am thirsty, it should be nearby, how else? How else would he know?" He placed the statuette slowly back on the table, his eyes widened, taking in all the items before him, and his chest heaved as he took a slow step back.

"May…may I have some water?" he asked, his pale face with his demanding wide open eyes piercing into mine, made me feel like he had no respect that I was the one hosting him. When I returned with a bottle of water from my cooler, he shook his head and demanded that I bring fresh water from the well that this house gets its water from.

When I came back with a glass full of water from the kitchen sink, he carefully took it and inspected the glass as if he were a wine connoisseur. He took one small sip of water, tasted the water as if it were a fine spirit, and proceeded to savor the water with small lip smacks.

"No," he said, handing me the glass of water back. "It is not what I remember; it is not what will satisfy my thirst."

I told him to take it or leave it, as it was all I had, since he did not want the ice-cold, fresh water from my cooler. He proceeded to apologize, stating that there must be other sources from other wells, as he was looking for a particular taste.

"Your uncle seems to have known of the lumbering chaos, or at least an understanding of ancient times before civilization, hence the books he once possessed. Let me ask you something: how did he die?"

For a professor, he was uncouth; my uncle had died of suicide. My uncle, also being a professor, was selfish. My father was not as empathetic as my mother, but I agreed with him; he took the cowardly way out. A now dark stain in the family's history, but of course, I would never say that to another person; I would never share those sentiments because all Dr. Pierce would see is someone who 'doesn't understand.' The Throgmortons agreed to say the cause of death was an accident, and that is what I told Dr. Pierce.

"Was there a body? Did you see that there was a body in the casket?"

I told him yes, but the truth was that I did not know; it was a closed-casket funeral. The way he ended his life apparently left him disfigured, and the older members of the family who had taken care of all of the arrangements made sure we did not remember him in that fashion.

"I find it impossible that it was his body. I'm afraid you have been fooled, dear boy, but before you chase me off your property. I think it's best if we walk around this land, trying different wells your uncle may have made. I will then explain my hypothesis about your uncle's death."

And we did just that, going from hand pump to hand pump across the dried farm land while he explained his madness to me. I would be lying if I said I was not intrigued by these weird tales of lost tribes using special water to drive their occult practices. What he called communion with elder unknown beings, I first thought was lead poisoning from tainted water.

"You laugh, and I understand that. You are an innocent man thrust into an unfair, chaotic situation, and for that, I will make sure you are not haunted by the truth. Those who live by sweet lies and ignorance of what is real are not foolish, but have mercy bestowed upon them, for they get to live peacefully. But for one who seeks the truth, woe to him, for everything has a price; the price for knowledge is the very thing that can retain it."

We walked to a well that had irrigation nozzles and hoses coming from it. Dr. Pierce cranked the pump.

"It seems your uncle dug a lot; clearly, he found something, something deeper than all the aquifers known to us and learned the truth. I ask about his body because I believe your uncle is alive."

The more he spoke, the more I appreciated that I did not attend a prestigious university in the northeast. If all the faculty were as pretentious as he, I would have been expelled for hurting someone. Dr. Pierce suspected my annoyance, as my responses to his statements were short, but he was cordial enough to apologize and explain himself.

"I, too, have seen the truth," he said while cupping his hands beneath the pump as the fresh water came out. "No, this isn't it, but it is fresh if you want some," he continued to crank the pump for me to have a taste of the well water. "In my travels, I have seen unexplainable things that have shaken my core beliefs. When I discovered the truth, I ran for my life, not caring that I would get lost and possibly die in the jungles of Bolivia. I could not bear it. When I managed to return home, it took a year and a concoction of sleeping medications to stop me from dreaming. Ever since then, the nightmares have been fewer, but I still feel a yearning to know more. The items your uncle possessed are tokens and idols I recognized from the time I spent with the uncontacted tribes. The odd entities depicted in jade stone, how your uncle came about them, you may never know, but to be that entrenched in the truth…the calling would be too strong. The calling I'm talking about is that once you get a glimpse of what lies behind this fabric we call reality, you want to become a part of it, for what purpose? I don't know. Perhaps you want to feed the chaos and use your essence in sacrifice, maybe you want power over others and riches. I am sure your uncle left to be part of this chaotic reality, or maybe your family is correct, he could not bear the truth any longer."

We came upon another well; the hand pump was newer, and the piping was not as weathered. When Dr. Pierce cranked the pump, the water quickly flowed. The filter must not have been working because there was dark sediment in the water, but the professor promptly cupped his hands, then got on one knee and drank underneath the pump.

"This," he said after a minute of drinking without pause. I did not question it, I did not care, my only thoughts were that perhaps now that he found something to quench his thirst, he would soon leave, and I no longer had to deal with him.

"Yes," he uttered with a grin on his face. "Yes, yes, yes!" He was ecstatic, staring far into the open prairie. Then that joyful grin disappeared into a remorseful, downcast expression.

"Ic'thaall'ithesh, ovulthih yibrathrh'itra."

Madness, he uttered madness, those guttural sounds from his throat were madness…then he said nothing. He gained his bearings and then looked at me.

"We must leave, let's go," he mumbled.

We loaded all that he bought into my vehicle and drove back into town. He was quiet on the drive back to his hotel. I did not say a thing; I did not care to ask any questions. The sooner he got what he came for and left, the better for me. When we arrived at the hotel where he was staying, he informed me that he would be staying in Oakphur for a few more days because he did not wish to wait to get back home before taking notes on what he had just obtained. I sighed at the fact that I was not done with this fandom, but he did tell me not to go back to my uncle's farm and not to drink the water from that last well we found.

"It is not my place to tell you what to do, but sometimes living in sweet lies is not so bad. Please, do not go back to your uncle's farm."

I ignored him. I was cocky and thought to myself that no stranger could tell me what to do with the inheritance bestowed upon me. I left for my parents' home that night, but I had plans to tidy up the homestead and do some chores there the next day.

I spoke with my parents about the encounter with this professor and stated that my uncle was the way that he was because he was into the occult, on drugs, or drinking contaminated water. I was trying to come from a place of understanding and empathy, but my mother stormed off, telling me I spoke about things I did not understand, while my father told me that he agreed with me.

"I mean, I always suspected it was drugs," my father said.

Whatever it was, tensions were high among the family. We all missed him, but being at his home, cleaning and maintaining the place, was quite soothing for me. I drove back to the homestead to get anything I had left there and to do more chores.

After a day of cleaning and rearranging furniture, the daylight quickly left. It was already late into the evening, and there was no reason for me to drive back home, so I decided to sleep in at the homestead. I must have been exhausted because, when I propped my head up after what I heard, I was certain I was barely falling asleep. It felt like ten minutes had passed while I was getting comfortable on the living room couch, but my phone indicated that it had been four hours since I had lain down. Adjusting to sleep deprivation was the least of my worries, as I was frantically looking around. I heard something; I felt I was being watched. The coat rack, the coffee table with the lamp in the corner of the room—my mind was morphing them into humanoid shadows in the dark. There was stillness for a few minutes; the humming of the refrigerator and the occasional popping of metal from the microwave were the immediate sounds I picked up. But there was something else; I could not explain it, but I was sure there were whispers nearby. I slowly lowered my head back down on the pillow, covering my face with the blankets, when I heard a distinct rustling outside the nearest window to me.

It was an animal, perhaps a coyote or a raccoon, I was sure of it, and just shook my head in the humor of being spooked by some wild animals common to farm life. I was an adult, and yet here I was still afraid of everyday things that moved in the dark. Although I had slept on the couch other nights before, this was the first time I heard something, but then again, I am a heavy sleeper. I heard the same rustling and pitter-patter of feet creeping outside again as I fell into a hypnagogic state. My body jerked when I thought I heard clearly, 'it's this way.' The continuous movements, along with what my ears picked up, struck my curiosity. There was no way I was going to fall into a deep slumber any time soon. I reached for my handgun and built up the courage to amble toward the window and catch a glimpse of whatever or whoever was outside. I saw nothing but the endless night, yet the hairs on my back were standing straight up. There was an aroma near the window, a whiff of ammonia, and fish was what registered in my brain. I became awake and alert, my heart racing, and I felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through my body. My gut was telling me something was outside and near, perhaps vandals or teens finding a place to get high. I could not see, and I was too scared to open the door and shine a flashlight. I moved away from the curtains and lay back down on the couch, clutching the end of my blanket. I lost time, but I do not remember drifting away. I did not dream that night, and after what felt like five minutes of rest, all I could think about was heading back home.

Dr. Pierce called me in the morning, but I ignored his first call because I did not want anything to do with the strange man. He called me again, and I let it go to voicemail. Our transaction was final and finished. If some statuette had broken or some grimoire came with torn pages, then that was just how it was going to be. I then received a text message from him asking why I had decided to stay at the house last night when he specifically told me not to, that it wasn't safe. I held the phone in my palm, just reading the message over and over again, thinking how did he know and how dare he? I was livid and was prepared to let him know. I called him, ready to tell him to back off from my personal business, but when he answered the phone before I could get a word in, he stated.

"Your uncle is alive, and I know where he is, but you must leave the house, leave him be."

I am not one for profanities, but I did not care at that moment; I let him hear every single one I knew. I screamed never to contact me again and hung up. Losing one friend to suicide when I was younger, and now my uncle. The last thing I needed was a taunt and a joke, for I held resistance in my heart. I could not have compassion for something I saw as a cowardly approach to dealing with life. I couldn't say sorry for that, not to them, not to myself, not yet.

The following message that came in, I wanted to throw my phone across the room, but I decided to click block on Dr. Pierce's number. Before I did that, the text message from him read.

"Vespers at night, cult is summoned, run from the truth, your uncle has made his choice, so have I."

And so did I, through my anger and disdain at all this esoteric nonsense. I chose my penance for how I saw my uncle's passing. That penance was to keep the property, to restore it, one way or another, somehow, I was going to figure it out and make sure his legacy of this farm thrived.

I had no clue how to fix things or remodel homes. I was not scared of this task, though; I was patient and knew this would take years. I was fine and, for a while, at peace. This peace carried on for a month. I had forgotten about Dr. Pierce until one evening, when two officers startled my parents and me because I had become a suspect in the disappearance of Dr. Edward Pierce. I was informed that I was one of the last people seen with the professor, apart from those who witnessed his delusion-riddled episodes in his hotel room; apparently, he never let the hotel's front desk know about checking out, and he never made it back to Boston. His last emails, text messages, and phone calls to his friends and colleagues were cryptic and filled with nonsense about 'finding the truth,' and 'joining the others.' I was questioned about all of this and shared what I knew and what I suspected. Law enforcement was unable to link anything to indicate that I aided in his disappearance. Still, they were hesitant to clear me because in the professor's messages, he mentioned my uncle's farm a lot, stating that it was where he was going, and it was a way to get closer to the truth. They noted that upon checking my uncle's property, they found nothing unusual apart from the professor's coat by a rusty flatbed truck with a driller. They found no body or evidence of a wild animal dragging him away. With the increase in drug busts and drug-related charges in the county, and the behavior other witnesses reported about him, they guessed the worst had happened to him and eventually stopped questioning me.

I was frustrated that, without my consent and knowledge, this guy was able to get someone to give him a ride to my uncle's farm; he had trespassed and done God knows what else. The cops assured us that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but I did not care. I drove over there myself the next day. When I arrived, I saw that the front door was ajar. I quickly returned to my vehicle and got my pistol. The inside of the house was humid and heavy. I blew air out of my nose, trying to get precious milliseconds of nothingness before the acidic vinegar stench of herring and sardines scraped my esophagus with every breath. I crept to every room, checking every corner, every closet, under the bed, behind furniture. I wiped the sweat from my brow, and I talked to myself about how I need to get in shape cause my lungs were barely hanging on. I clenched my teeth with every creak I made, my arms were shaky, and my trigger finger felt swollen. Yet, I was finding nothing, no strange noises, nothing seemed out of place, nothing was stolen or lost.

When I opened the door to the basement, I shivered. I could not explain it, but I felt like I was being watched. I took a deep breath, almost gagged, and slowly walked down the stairs, gun in one hand, cellphone as a flashlight in the other. I panicked and squirmed quickly, looking for the light switch. I could not stand the darkness, I yelled, saying I was armed, and even said that if Dr. Pierce was down here, just to come out. When I pulled the string of the light switch, I exhaled a sigh of relief, for I was all alone. I, along with a five-foot monolith in the center of the basement. I drew near it, perplexed about what my uncle had been up to, if he had carved what I saw around it. Itched into the dirty stone were markings of humanoid forms with atypical limbs stretched as if to reach for the stars. Above them, chaotic spirals of cephalopod appendages consumed cetacean-like flukes that morphed into more spirals that just circled the monolith until the top. There, a poorly scratched, hunched, bug-like animal with a sort of ovipositor was depicted. Beside the monolith was one lone bucket filled with dark water and a ladle.

I gently caressed the monolith, wiping away dust when my vision turned blurry. A kaleidoscope of dark purple and yellowish hues enveloped my vision, making the room spin. Someone or something was stabbing me in the head with an icepick. I twirled around, waving my arms and grabbing my head, screaming from the pain in my temples. I tripped over the bucket, and I scrambled like a lost fool trying to pick myself up. I was mistaken about what was in the bucket because all I felt while my hands were moving frantically was slimy oil.

I managed to gain my bearings and ran out of the basement. I tried to run toward the front door of the house, but I was too disoriented and getting dizzy. My head was about to rupture, and my vision was getting brighter; more colors were joining the dancing kaleidoscope. I screamed when the colors formed a dark, curved pupil surrounded by an iris and a pale, burning ring. I scratched my eyes and jerked frantically like a madman. A horrendous, deep voice was heard, similar to the guttural sounds I had heard before; my brain did not process what was said, but it was dreadful. I remember screaming, toppling the lamps, and knocking down the coffee table. What I don't remember is making my way to my uncle's bedroom and tucking myself into his bed.

I was groggy and disoriented. I did not know what day it was or the time. The headache had subsided, and my vision was back to normal, albeit my eyelids burned and my shins throbbed. I looked around, and no sunlight was shining through the windows. My phone was placed on the nightstand. It was late in the evening, I had to get home, but was I thirsty! I was parched, and I felt weak. I lifted myself out of bed and walked to the door only to hear footsteps and whistling on the other side. My adrenaline perked me up. I remembered that I had left the door unlocked while I was clearing the house; someone must have tried to look for me, or perhaps it was Dr. Pierce all along. I took a deep breath and searched for my gun; it was nowhere on my person. I turned to the bed and quietly pulled the sheets and patted the mattress, hoping that I was lying on it in bed. The closest thing to a hefty weapon was a metal candle holder on the nightstand. I grabbed it and I slowly turned the knobb of the door and followed the kitchen light that shone through the living room. I raised my voice, ready to swing at whoever was in my house.

It was Mr. West; his hunched form with his dark, doll-like eyes and eerie smile greeted me before I could bring the candle holder down on his head. I asked what he was doing in my house.

"Well, it seemed like you needed some help," he said.

I asked him how he knew that I needed help and whether he had broken into my house earlier. All he did was smirk and respond to having a good sense of when one gets a glimpse of the truth. I was not satisfied with the answer, and I was scared as to why he took it upon himself to come in.

"Well, you see, I'm glad I came in because you were losing your mind," he said. "You had your gun under your chin while you cowered in the corner. Hehehe, those things are not toys, youngin."

My voice shook, my fist clenched the candle holder tighter, and I told him that I would never do such a thing and to leave my property.

"Hehehe, if you say so, youngin, but I'm not leaving. The matins are about to happen. I stay."

He showed no care that I was close to striking him with the blunt weapon; he walked to the kitchen counter and grabbed a glass of water that was already sitting there.

"You must be thirsty," he said, handing me the glass. "Join us, then you can decide if you want to drink or not."

He walked out the door, motioning me to follow him. I followed, a few yards from the porch of the house, was a procession. A group of people dragging their feet like marionettes, each whispering incomprehensible words. From where they came from, I do not know, but before I could voice my concern as to what they were doing in the property. Mr. West just kept motioning me to follow and stay quiet. It was a sizable group. I followed from behind, knowing exactly where we were going, even in the dark, I had a good read of the property. We were going to the unfinished well, when we arrived, no one said anything different. No one cared to mess with the equipment left out. The whispers continued, and no one looked up at each other. I do not think they knew I was even there. The whispers grew louder, and even Mr. West beside me started to speak that guttural gibberish that I had heard before. The whispers became a chant, and the aroma of the air grew pungent like rotting fish. The people raised their arms, speaking in this ungodly tongue. Then, some kneeled while others stood before this gaping hole in the ground, and before my eyes, webbed hands rose from the open crater. Slimy skin twinkled in the night, the grotesque figures before me lifted themselves from the hole. Their black doll eyes with amphibious features of wide slitted mouths and small nostrils dropped me to my knees in pain, for their guttural unholy language still resembled some familiarity of a sound all too well known in my ears. How could I tell my mom? How could I relay the message to the Throgmortons, to those hoping for justice for Edward Pierce?

The throbbing pain in my temples was returning. I lifted my head to look at the aquatic deformities of men I once knew, who dragged one of the people from the front of the group that was being offered like a sacrifice, and disappeared just as they arrived back into the crater. Mr. West crouched beside me, stopping his chanting and telling me that the nectar in the glass could subdue the pain. The sweet nectar that I was tempted to drink, but couldn't. The kaleidoscope was returning, my vision was creating a pale ring, I could not face the eye. But I couldn't drink the water, not just because I did not want to, but because that was not going to be my fate.

I threw the glass at Mr. West's face and ran. I ran toward my vehicle and floored it, losing the rear end, making a complete donut, and hitting one of the cultists as they tried to ambush the vehicle before straightening out and finding the road out of there.

Since that dreadful night, I have called the sheriff's office to report trespassing, but they have not bothered to go check out the property. I have tried to force my parents to go and fill in that gaping hole in the ground and to torch the house, but they refuse. My father thinks my uncle has influenced me, and I have fallen into substances. My mother makes me see a psychiatrist to stop the nightmares and excessive screaming that I do at night. I write this because of the constant pull towards worship of the greater truth, unknown to many. Is my fate sealed? Knowledge, endless knowledge, eons have passed, rocks have melted and formed encasing chaos, but one day it will awaken and rise. Oh, Oc'thadr'vhis, not far from me, just below the Ogallala you lie. Here I am Oc'thadr'vhis.

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