Chapter 30

Tucked in bed, in the dead of night, Elizabeth laid still. Blankets wrapped her body. A soft pillow cushioned her head. It was the most comfortable she'd ever physically been. And yet she couldn't sleep. Something kept her awake. Some strange feeling, gnawing away at the back of her mind. She felt odd, the whole room did. Something wasn't right.

Something was watching her.

Elizabeth tried to move, tried to shift in the bed to look around, but she couldn't. She was locked in place. Her muscles wouldn't budge. She was paralyzed. All she could do was glance around with her eyes. So that's what she did. Looking up and down, side to side, looking at every single possible angle. But there was nothing. Nothing tangibly there. Not to her knowledge. She couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. But she knew something was there. It just didn't want to be seen. Not yet. Not until it was ready.

Elizabeth blinked. Eyes open, then closed, then open again. And when she reopened her eyes, that's when she could see it. A figure standing in the corner, just behind the window. Shrouded in darkness, the figure didn't have any discernable shape. All Elizabeth could make out was a faint outline and two, piercing, bloodshot eyes. Staring at her. Watching her. Unmoving. Unblinking. Just staring.

A faint, incomprehensible whisper fluttered across the room. The language was indecipherable. Close to English, but not. Not Spanish or German or any other human language. Not Elvish or Dwarvish, or Draconic, not any language Elizabeth has ever heard. Abyssal? Primordial? Deep speech? No. Something far greater. Something far more sinister. R'lyehian. Amongst the strange chatter, random words would be spliced in. As if Elizabeth's observer wanted her to know something. A threat, an omen, a warning? She couldn't be sure. All she knew was that it wasn't good and was stuck to endure this torment. Die. Death. Sick. Sickness. Ill and illness. Rot. Disease. Mold. Infect and infection. Those were the words that she could pick out.

Repent.

Repent.

Repent.

That word. It stuck out to her like a sore thumb. Repent what? And why? Elizabeth had only heard that word in religious contexts. In the times when she'd go to church, the priest would talk about repenting for thy sins.

Sin.

There's another word she could make out. Was this God? Surely not. Faith has taught her that God is forgiving and welcoming. Not this. The Devil? Again, she couldn't be sure. But this made more sense to her. Whatever this entity is, it certainly sees itself as some high holy figure.

Elizabeth blinked. The figure was gone. Silence. Only the beating of her heart could be heard.

She blinked again.

The figure was now at the foot of her bed. The eyes continued to stare down at her, high above her head. The entity's body was more defined. Slender, contorted, gangly. The eyes no longer were the only thing bloodshot. Needle-like teeth and claws, and a rigid, spiked spine, all stained red on their shadows and accents. Click. Click. Click. Something in the room kept clicking. Was it the floorboards or the creature? Elizabeth tried to reason the former, but the direction of the sound confirmed the latter. The whispering only grew louder, and the familiar words only became more plentiful.

Repent.

Sin.

Rot.

Suffer.

Apocalypse.

Elizabeth felt something slither across her leg. Something up her dress, around her thighs. It was slimy, sticky, sopping wet. It latched to her hands, crept up her arms, spread across her back, and wrapped along her chest. Elizabeth looked around as best she could, trying to get a glimpse of what was enveloping her. A black sludge. Goo that stretched out like webs and tentacles. Her heart raced as the substance encircled her neck. Slowly, it tightened like a noose on her throat. Elizabeth's breaths quickened, growing shallower with every passing second.

Cry.

Cry.

Cry.

It would repeat. Over and over. Elizabeth tried to obey its commands. Maybe then it would leave her alone, give up its assault. But her tears only stayed glazed over the tops of her eyeballs.

Conquest, Death, Pestilence, Famine.

Dullahan, Necros, Helsing, Ronin.

Conquest, Death, Pestilence, Famine.

Dullahan, Necros, Helsing, Ronin.

Conquest, Death, Pestilence, Famine.

Dullahan, Necros, Helsing, Ronin.

It would chant. Over and over. The R'lyehian never faded. No, it just played in the background to the other voice. There was never just one voice, but a symphony. Before they all spoke together, only slightly out of sync. But now, now they all sing their own song. Nightly silence turned to an overstimulating nightmare. A constant choir that would never cease.

Not until Elizabeth blinked again.

Then they all disappeared again. Gone. Banished back to the shadows. But Elizabeth could still feel their presence. The pressure they put on her chest was still there. In fact, it was growing. The pressure kept building. More and more. Harder and harder. A mild discomfort soon became unbearable pain. Elizabeth tried to scream but she couldn't. She just had to suffer in silence until...

Crack.

Her ribs gave way. A clawed hand was sunken deep into her chest. The entity loomed over head, mouth agape. The whispers were so loud, so deafening, that referring to them as such would be a lie. Distorted screams rattled the air. Ungodly, unholy sounds rang out around her. The thing twitched as more of that sludge dripped from its mouth. It poured down onto Elizabeth, suffocating her, drowning her, all the while the creature continued to repeat its phrases. But something new entered the mix, overpowering all the other words.

Y̸̩̳̗̍͑͋ǫ̶͉̝͛̃u̴̝͖̇͝͝'̷̹̩̊r̴̢̭̜͑̎͒e̸͋̋͜ ̸̺̱̿̐͂g̴̤͒̕ǫ̷̽ĩ̶̬̚ṇ̵̮͔̃̒͝ǵ̴̯̽ ̴̳̺̮̂̇̑t̴͇̺́̀͜ō̷̥̻̟͘ ̵̠͛͠d̴̛͉͕̅̾i̴͈̳̊́e̷̩̼͍̋̏̿.̶̧̟͂ ̸͔̺̒K̷̢̲͎̀̐̎ị̷̹̋͋l̷̘̦̈͑̊l̶̢̨̳͂̑̂ ̷̥̲͘y̸͎̋ò̸̮̆̅ú̸̪̝͇͑r̸̭̍̉s̵̠̥̚͝e̷̢̨̛͍͑l̷̥̠̒̆̿f̶̥͔̈́.̴̨̙͍͘ ̷̬́̓E̷̯͋n̶̬̭̮̔̚d̷͇̝͓̍́̆ ̷̩̏̊̈ḭ̶͍͂̉͜t̸̛̖̙̎ ̷̧͖͖̑n̷̲͐͊̊ö̷̼͎́ẘ̵͝ͅ.̶̨͚̟̉
̴͕̉̈́̇Ỷ̵͕͝o̶̟̭͑̀͝u̸̱̽̿̆'̴̼͓͗ŕ̵̝̠͜e̴̠̿̓ ̴̰̍ǧ̸̪̓o̸̫͗̀i̵̖͗̄̚ͅn̸̳͇͌͆g̸͈͕͠ ̴̙̠̾̀́t̶̡̻͚̐̆ö̷̳́ ̵̣̹̪̈́̌d̵̡͕̂̐̇ị̴̀̑͠e̸͖̖̝̎̎̕.̸̡̹̽̍͑ ̵̘͈͗̇̿K̶̛͖͚̬͗͠ï̵̧̭͝ḻ̴̔̿l̸̮̗̍͛ ̷̥̏̊͝ỳ̷̢͓͍̽ó̵͙̀u̷͎͖̤̇́͠r̷̥͐͋s̸̳̹̄e̵̯̜͎̽͛̚l̵̡̯͍̒͑̈́f̴̡̑̓.̴̳͎̅̂̄ ̶̮̻̊͑͒E̸͈̼͊̍n̸̜̞̓d̴͔̊ͅ ̵͚̲͆͌͝i̷͔̳̔̾ṫ̴̘̈ ̴̧̢̥͛͋n̵̺͔̈͒ō̴͚̊w̵͔͚̞̽̈̒.̴̰̼͖̏̌
̷̺͕͠Y̸̖̟͑́͝o̵̢̹̾̓ǔ̵̢͍̗͒'̵͓͚͍͋̒͝ŗ̶͚͈̓e̸̜̙͐̋̚ ̴̻͙̾g̶̪̓̔̿ô̴̢̫̪̈́͝ĩ̴̡̡͂͑ṉ̴̻̖͂̅͆ĝ̵̛̮̬͓ ̸̹͙͍͐ţ̵̤̾̌o̶̱͉̅͛ ̸̢̞̈́̾d̸͚̊̈́̕i̸͙̾̽̿ẽ̷̡͠ͅ.̸̺̄ ̵͚̘͍́͐K̷͓͗ȉ̸̦̬̈l̴̺͚̔̀͝ḽ̷͉̪̊ ̶̰̟̗̈y̶͖͆̓̇o̶̹̅̇͠u̶̢̔r̴̘͌́ͅs̶̲̍̅͝ẻ̷̠̪͆l̸̟̓̃̒f̵̢̫̈́̚.̸̬͋͝ ̵̖̦̆E̵̜̗̙̔n̵̙̜̹͊̎d̸̺̆̏ ̵̛̩͛ī̷̧̺̤̈́ṫ̶͉̺͝ ̴̡̲̐͑n̴̞̹̺̾ō̴͎͔̯w̸̪͔̙͂̉.̶̛͚
̶̘͐̂Y̸͉̪͆ô̸̡̔ǔ̸͉̬'̶̓͛͊͜ͅr̸̮̙̝̾̓è̵̮ ̶͙̺̆̒g̴͖͚͂͠ơ̶͈̝̂͆i̴̜͒̃̔ń̴̺͍̑̓g̷͎̪͒̕ ̴̧̮̖͗t̸̖͊o̴̬͋ ̵͕̪̰̋d̵͕̹͗̓ḯ̶̜̦e̵̬̤͔͆.̵̨̀̕ ̷͎̹̈́K̷͍̈́̊i̴͈͂̅̓ļ̵̯̮̑l̴̯͚̰͌̈́ ̴̜̜͘ỳ̴̹̩̫̈́o̷͉̲͂̀̅u̵̧͉̦͋̔r̸̻͆s̷͈̹̊́ĕ̶͔̩͕l̵͈͎̭̓́f̶̮͔̬̓̾.̴̣͕̪̎̚ ̶̤͎͋̏Ȩ̷̜͖͌̈ṉ̷̑̐̕d̴̛̩̋ ̵̻̦̝̔i̵͖̻̋ẗ̸̠̖̱ ̶͉̙͍̈́̉̀ň̴̤̱͍o̴̢̺̫̾̈́w̷̫̟̼̿͑.̴̨̭͊͝
̵̜̘͆͠Y̴̖̭̍̈̏o̶͖̩͑͂ů̵̝̻̈́'̸̹͒̍r̸̤̋é̴̮͉̠ ̴̡̠̎͝ġ̴̣̖̗̏o̸̗͇̗̔i̸̖̍ṋ̷̢͔̂͋̈́g̶̖̩̎̕ ̶̫̲̹̿̕t̵̤͐̌̀o̷̙̘͎͋̚ ̸̟͕̄̿͛d̸̰̪̕ȉ̵̗̒͝e̶͖̖͠.̶̫͛ ̸̡̝͖̓͒́K̶̠̯͕̉i̴̤̘̍͌̚l̴͎͋̀ḽ̵̢̇̀̄ ̵̖̏y̸͍̾͜͜ō̵̪͓̊ũ̶̹̱̀r̵̪͕̫̒̋s̴͙̟̱͛͋é̶͎͉ĺ̷̬̀̍f̷͇͕͓͒̿̚.̸̬̂ ̸̨̥͑È̸̮̻̩̏̕n̸̮͕̓͗̉d̶̡͇̯̊ ̶̢̹͑̓̒i̵̲̍̊͗t̷̳͈͋ͅ ̸̧͠n̶̜͌̽̿ȯ̶̟̼̟ẅ̶̙̹́̚.̵͎̞͙̃
̷̝̑̍̈͜Y̵̛̙ò̸̡̟͜ủ̸̧̫̩'̴̜̭͝r̷̭̻͙̓ḙ̵̑͒ ̷͚̣̼͛̊̉g̷̲̜̱̀̓͊o̷̡͔͋͛ͅĩ̸̬̦̰n̴̢̖͠ġ̵̺̩̙̚ ̵̰̭̘̌͠ṭ̵͋͛͠ŏ̶̰͖̫ ̵̨̅d̸̖̆i̸̛̜̩͌e̷͖͚̭̿́.̵̯̘̱͐ ̶̭̈́̾Ķ̴̣̉̊ị̷̙̑̊l̴̡̥̿̚l̸̥͎̘͛ ̶̧̻͒͌͝y̵̺̾o̶̟͌ȕ̵̡͉̤̆͋r̷͔͐͠ş̷̲̓͂͠e̵̱͐̈̈́l̷̥̰̍̉̄f̸̺̌̀͜.̸̛͈̲͛̽ ̵͚͔̣̓̀͝E̶͍̅͌̄ͅņ̸̥̄̔̐d̴͚̈́͠ ̴͈̝̤̋̆i̷̺̘̅͗͗ͅṯ̷͎̂̈̀ ̶͉͋ͅn̷͎͔͚̿͑o̶̧̯̅͛͗ẁ̵͉̜̀͊
.̸̖̭̈́̇̄Y̸̩̳̗̍͑͋ǫ̶͉̝͛̃u̴̝͖̇͝͝'̷̹̩̊r̴̢̭̜͑̎͒e̸͋̋͜ ̸̺̱̿̐͂g̴̤͒̕ǫ̷̽ĩ̶̬̚ṇ̵̮͔̃̒͝ǵ̴̯̽ ̴̳̺̮̂̇̑t̴͇̺́̀͜ō̷̥̻̟͘ ̵̠͛͠d̴̛͉͕̅̾i̴͈̳̊́e̷̩̼͍̋̏̿.̶̧̟͂ ̸͔̺̒K̷̢̲͎̀̐̎ị̷̹̋͋l̷̘̦̈͑̊l̶̢̨̳͂̑̂ ̷̥̲͘y̸͎̋ò̸̮̆̅ú̸̪̝͇͑r̸̭̍̉s̵̠̥̚͝e̷̢̨̛͍͑l̷̥̠̒̆̿f̶̥͔̈́.̴̨̙͍͘ ̷̬́̓E̷̯͋n̶̬̭̮̔̚d̷͇̝͓̍́̆ ̷̩̏̊̈ḭ̶͍͂̉͜t̸̛̖̙̎ ̷̧͖͖̑n̷̲͐͊̊ö̷̼͎́ẘ̵͝ͅ
.̶̴̨͚̟͕̉̉̈́̇Ỷ̵͕͝o̶̟̭͑̀͝u̸̱̽̿̆'̴̼͓͗ŕ̵̝̠͜e̴̠̿̓ ̴̰̍ǧ̸̪̓o̸̫͗̀i̵̖͗̄̚ͅn̸̳͇͌͆g̸͈͕͠ ̴̙̠̾̀́t̶̡̻͚̐̆ö̷̳́ ̵̣̹̪̈́̌d̵̡͕̂̐̇ị̴̀̑͠e̸͖̖̝̎̎̕.̸̡̹̽̍͑ ̵̘͈͗̇̿K̶̛͖͚̬͗͠ï̵̧̭͝ḻ̴̔̿l̸̮̗̍͛ ̷̥̏̊͝ỳ̷̢͓͍̽ó̵͙̀u̷͎͖̤̇́͠r̷̥͐͋s̸̳̹̄e̵̯̜͎̽͛̚l̵̡̯͍̒͑̈́f̴̡̑̓.̴̳͎̅̂̄ ̶̮̻̊͑͒E̸͈̼͊̍n̸̜̞̓d̴͔̊ͅ ̵͚̲͆͌͝i̷͔̳̔̾ṫ̴̘̈ ̴̧̢̥͛͋n̵̺͔̈͒ō̴͚̊w̵͔͚̞̽̈̒.̴̷̰̼͖̺͕̏̌͠
Y̸̖̟͑́͝o̵̢̹̾̓ǔ̵̢͍̗͒'̵͓͚͍͋̒͝ŗ̶͚͈̓e̸̜̙͐̋̚ ̴̻͙̾g̶̪̓̔̿ô̴̢̫̪̈́͝ĩ̴̡̡͂͑ṉ̴̻̖͂̅͆ĝ̵̛̮̬͓ ̸̹͙͍͐ţ̵̤̾̌o̶̱͉̅͛ ̸̢̞̈́̾d̸͚̊̈́̕i̸͙̾̽̿ẽ̷̡͠ͅ.̸̺̄ ̵͚̘͍́͐K̷͓͗ȉ̸̦̬̈l̴̺͚̔̀͝ḽ̷͉̪̊ ̶̰̟̗̈y̶͖͆̓̇o̶̹̅̇͠u̶̢̔r̴̘͌́ͅs̶̲̍̅͝ẻ̷̠̪͆l̸̟̓̃̒f̵̢̫̈́̚.̸̬͋͝ ̵̖̦̆E̵̜̗̙̔n̵̙̜̹͊̎d̸̺̆̏ ̵̛̩͛ī̷̧̺̤̈́ṫ̶͉̺͝ ̴̡̲̐͑n̴̞̹̺̾ō̴͎͔̯w̸̪͔̙͂̉.̶̶̛͚̘͐̂
Y̸͉̪͆ô̸̡̔ǔ̸͉̬'̶̓͛͊͜ͅr̸̮̙̝̾̓è̵̮ ̶͙̺̆̒g̴͖͚͂͠ơ̶͈̝̂͆i̴̜͒̃̔ń̴̺͍̑̓g̷͎̪͒̕ ̴̧̮̖͗t̸̖͊o̴̬͋ ̵͕̪̰̋d̵͕̹͗̓ḯ̶̜̦e̵̬̤͔͆.̵̨̀̕ ̷͎̹̈́K̷͍̈́̊i̴͈͂̅̓ļ̵̯̮̑l̴̯͚̰͌̈́ ̴̜̜͘ỳ̴̹̩̫̈́o̷͉̲͂̀̅u̵̧͉̦͋̔r̸̻͆s̷͈̹̊́ĕ̶͔̩͕l̵͈͎̭̓́f̶̮͔̬̓̾.̴̣͕̪̎̚ ̶̤͎͋̏Ȩ̷̜͖͌̈ṉ̷̑̐̕d̴̛̩̋ ̵̻̦̝̔i̵͖̻̋ẗ̸̠̖̱ ̶͉̙͍̈́̉̀ň̴̤̱͍o̴̢̺̫̾̈́w̷̫̟̼̿͑.̴̵̨̭̜̘͊͆͝͠
Y̴̖̭̍̈̏o̶͖̩͑͂ů̵̝̻̈́'̸̹͒̍r̸̤̋é̴̮͉̠ ̴̡̠̎͝ġ̴̣̖̗̏o̸̗͇̗̔i̸̖̍ṋ̷̢͔̂͋̈́g̶̖̩̎̕ ̶̫̲̹̿̕t̵̤͐̌̀o̷̙̘͎͋̚ ̸̟͕̄̿͛d̸̰̪̕ȉ̵̗̒͝e̶͖̖͠.̶̫͛ ̸̡̝͖̓͒́K̶̠̯͕̉i̴̤̘̍͌̚l̴͎͋̀ḽ̵̢̇̀̄ ̵̖̏y̸͍̾͜͜ō̵̪͓̊ũ̶̹̱̀r̵̪͕̫̒̋s̴͙̟̱͛͋é̶͎͉ĺ̷̬̀̍f̷͇͕͓͒̿̚.̸̬̂ ̸̨̥͑È̸̮̻̩̏̕n̸̮͕̓͗̉d̶̡͇̯̊ ̶̢̹͑̓̒i̵̲̍̊͗t̷̳͈͋ͅ ̸̧͠n̶̜͌̽̿ȯ̶̟̼̟ẅ̶̙̹́̚.̵̷͎̞͙̝̃̑̍̈͜
Y̵̛̙ò̸̡̟͜ủ̸̧̫̩'̴̜̭͝r̷̭̻͙̓ḙ̵̑͒ ̷͚̣̼͛̊̉g̷̲̜̱̀̓͊o̷̡͔͋͛ͅĩ̸̬̦̰n̴̢̖͠ġ̵̺̩̙̚ ̵̰̭̘̌͠ṭ̵͋͛͠ŏ̶̰͖̫ ̵̨̅d̸̖̆i̸̛̜̩͌e̷͖͚̭̿́.̵̯̘̱͐ ̶̭̈́̾Ķ̴̣̉̊ị̷̙̑̊l̴̡̥̿̚l̸̥͎̘͛ ̶̧̻͒͌͝y̵̺̾o̶̟͌ȕ̵̡͉̤̆͋r̷͔͐͠ş̷̲̓͂͠e̵̱͐̈̈́l̷̥̰̍̉̄f̸̺̌̀͜.̸̛͈̲͛̽ ̵͚͔̣̓̀͝E̶͍̅͌̄ͅņ̸̥̄̔̐d̴͚̈́͠ ̴͈̝̤̋̆i̷̺̘̅͗͗ͅṯ̷͎̂̈̀ ̶͉͋ͅn̷͎͔͚̿͑o̶̧̯̅͛͗ẁ̵͉̜̀͊.̸̖̭̈́̇̄

You're going to die. Kill yourself. End it now.

Y̸̩̳̗̍͑͋ǫ̶͉̝͛̃u̴̝͖̇͝͝'̷̹̩̊r̴̢̭̜͑̎͒e̸͋̋͜ ̸̺̱̿̐͂g̴̤͒̕ǫ̷̽ĩ̶̬̚ṇ̵̮͔̃̒͝ǵ̴̯̽ ̴̳̺̮̂̇̑t̴͇̺́̀͜ō̷̥̻̟͘ ̵̠͛͠d̴̛͉͕̅̾i̴͈̳̊́e̷̩̼͍̋̏̿.̶̧̟͂ ̸͔̺̒K̷̢̲͎̀̐̎ị̷̹̋͋l̷̘̦̈͑̊l̶̢̨̳͂̑̂ ̷̥̲͘y̸͎̋ò̸̮̆̅ú̸̪̝͇͑r̸̭̍̉s̵̠̥̚͝e̷̢̨̛͍͑l̷̥̠̒̆̿f̶̥͔̈́.̴̨̙͍͘ ̷̬́̓E̷̯͋n̶̬̭̮̔̚d̷͇̝͓̍́̆ ̷̩̏̊̈ḭ̶͍͂̉͜t̸̛̖̙̎ ̷̧͖͖̑n̷̲͐͊̊ö̷̼͎́ẘ̵͝ͅ.̶̨͚̟̉
̴͕̉̈́̇Ỷ̵͕͝o̶̟̭͑̀͝u̸̱̽̿̆'̴̼͓͗ŕ̵̝̠͜e̴̠̿̓ ̴̰̍ǧ̸̪̓o̸̫͗̀i̵̖͗̄̚ͅn̸̳͇͌͆g̸͈͕͠ ̴̙̠̾̀́t̶̡̻͚̐̆ö̷̳́ ̵̣̹̪̈́̌d̵̡͕̂̐̇ị̴̀̑͠e̸͖̖̝̎̎̕.̸̡̹̽̍͑ ̵̘͈͗̇̿K̶̛͖͚̬͗͠ï̵̧̭͝ḻ̴̔̿l̸̮̗̍͛ ̷̥̏̊͝ỳ̷̢͓͍̽ó̵͙̀u̷͎͖̤̇́͠r̷̥͐͋s̸̳̹̄e̵̯̜͎̽͛̚l̵̡̯͍̒͑̈́f̴̡̑̓.̴̳͎̅̂̄ ̶̮̻̊͑͒E̸͈̼͊̍n̸̜̞̓d̴͔̊ͅ ̵͚̲͆͌͝i̷͔̳̔̾ṫ̴̘̈ ̴̧̢̥͛͋n̵̺͔̈͒ō̴͚̊w̵͔͚̞̽̈̒.̴̰̼͖̏̌
̷̺͕͠Y̸̖̟͑́͝o̵̢̹̾̓ǔ̵̢͍̗͒'̵͓͚͍͋̒͝ŗ̶͚͈̓e̸̜̙͐̋̚ ̴̻͙̾g̶̪̓̔̿ô̴̢̫̪̈́͝ĩ̴̡̡͂͑ṉ̴̻̖͂̅͆ĝ̵̛̮̬͓ ̸̹͙͍͐ţ̵̤̾̌o̶̱͉̅͛ ̸̢̞̈́̾d̸͚̊̈́̕i̸͙̾̽̿ẽ̷̡͠ͅ.̸̺̄ ̵͚̘͍́͐K̷͓͗ȉ̸̦̬̈l̴̺͚̔̀͝ḽ̷͉̪̊ ̶̰̟̗̈y̶͖͆̓̇o̶̹̅̇͠u̶̢̔r̴̘͌́ͅs̶̲̍̅͝ẻ̷̠̪͆l̸̟̓̃̒f̵̢̫̈́̚.̸̬͋͝ ̵̖̦̆E̵̜̗̙̔n̵̙̜̹͊̎d̸̺̆̏ ̵̛̩͛ī̷̧̺̤̈́ṫ̶͉̺͝ ̴̡̲̐͑n̴̞̹̺̾ō̴͎͔̯w̸̪͔̙͂̉.̶̛͚
̶̘͐̂Y̸͉̪͆ô̸̡̔ǔ̸͉̬'̶̓͛͊͜ͅr̸̮̙̝̾̓è̵̮ ̶͙̺̆̒g̴͖͚͂͠ơ̶͈̝̂͆i̴̜͒̃̔ń̴̺͍̑̓g̷͎̪͒̕ ̴̧̮̖͗t̸̖͊o̴̬͋ ̵͕̪̰̋d̵͕̹͗̓ḯ̶̜̦e̵̬̤͔͆.̵̨̀̕ ̷͎̹̈́K̷͍̈́̊i̴͈͂̅̓ļ̵̯̮̑l̴̯͚̰͌̈́ ̴̜̜͘ỳ̴̹̩̫̈́o̷͉̲͂̀̅u̵̧͉̦͋̔r̸̻͆s̷͈̹̊́ĕ̶͔̩͕l̵͈͎̭̓́f̶̮͔̬̓̾.̴̣͕̪̎̚ ̶̤͎͋̏Ȩ̷̜͖͌̈ṉ̷̑̐̕d̴̛̩̋ ̵̻̦̝̔i̵͖̻̋ẗ̸̠̖̱ ̶͉̙͍̈́̉̀ň̴̤̱͍o̴̢̺̫̾̈́w̷̫̟̼̿͑.̴̨̭͊͝
̵̜̘͆͠Y̴̖̭̍̈̏o̶͖̩͑͂ů̵̝̻̈́'̸̹͒̍r̸̤̋é̴̮͉̠ ̴̡̠̎͝ġ̴̣̖̗̏o̸̗͇̗̔i̸̖̍ṋ̷̢͔̂͋̈́g̶̖̩̎̕ ̶̫̲̹̿̕t̵̤͐̌̀o̷̙̘͎͋̚ ̸̟͕̄̿͛d̸̰̪̕ȉ̵̗̒͝e̶͖̖͠.̶̫͛ ̸̡̝͖̓͒́K̶̠̯͕̉i̴̤̘̍͌̚l̴͎͋̀ḽ̵̢̇̀̄ ̵̖̏y̸͍̾͜͜ō̵̪͓̊ũ̶̹̱̀r̵̪͕̫̒̋s̴͙̟̱͛͋é̶͎͉ĺ̷̬̀̍f̷͇͕͓͒̿̚.̸̬̂ ̸̨̥͑È̸̮̻̩̏̕n̸̮͕̓͗̉d̶̡͇̯̊ ̶̢̹͑̓̒i̵̲̍̊͗t̷̳͈͋ͅ ̸̧͠n̶̜͌̽̿ȯ̶̟̼̟ẅ̶̙̹́̚.̵͎̞͙̃
̷̝̑̍̈͜Y̵̛̙ò̸̡̟͜ủ̸̧̫̩'̴̜̭͝r̷̭̻͙̓ḙ̵̑͒ ̷͚̣̼͛̊̉g̷̲̜̱̀̓͊o̷̡͔͋͛ͅĩ̸̬̦̰n̴̢̖͠ġ̵̺̩̙̚ ̵̰̭̘̌͠ṭ̵͋͛͠ŏ̶̰͖̫ ̵̨̅d̸̖̆i̸̛̜̩͌e̷͖͚̭̿́.̵̯̘̱͐ ̶̭̈́̾Ķ̴̣̉̊ị̷̙̑̊l̴̡̥̿̚l̸̥͎̘͛ ̶̧̻͒͌͝y̵̺̾o̶̟͌ȕ̵̡͉̤̆͋r̷͔͐͠ş̷̲̓͂͠e̵̱͐̈̈́l̷̥̰̍̉̄f̸̺̌̀͜.̸̛͈̲͛̽ ̵͚͔̣̓̀͝E̶͍̅͌̄ͅņ̸̥̄̔̐d̴͚̈́͠ ̴͈̝̤̋̆i̷̺̘̅͗͗ͅṯ̷͎̂̈̀ ̶͉͋ͅn̷͎͔͚̿͑o̶̧̯̅͛͗ẁ̵͉̜̀͊.̸̖̭̈́̇̄
Y̸̩̳̗̍͑͋ǫ̶͉̝͛̃u̴̝͖̇͝͝'̷̹̩̊r̴̢̭̜͑̎͒e̸͋̋͜ ̸̺̱̿̐͂g̴̤͒̕ǫ̷̽ĩ̶̬̚ṇ̵̮͔̃̒͝ǵ̴̯̽ ̴̳̺̮̂̇̑t̴͇̺́̀͜ō̷̥̻̟͘ ̵̠͛͠d̴̛͉͕̅̾i̴͈̳̊́e̷̩̼͍̋̏̿.̶̧̟͂ ̸͔̺̒K̷̢̲͎̀̐̎ị̷̹̋͋l̷̘̦̈͑̊l̶̢̨̳͂̑̂ ̷̥̲͘y̸͎̋ò̸̮̆̅ú̸̪̝͇͑r̸̭̍̉s̵̠̥̚͝e̷̢̨̛͍͑l̷̥̠̒̆̿f̶̥͔̈́.̴̨̙͍͘ ̷̬́̓E̷̯͋n̶̬̭̮̔̚d̷͇̝͓̍́̆ ̷̩̏̊̈ḭ̶͍͂̉͜t̸̛̖̙̎ ̷̧͖͖̑n̷̲͐͊̊ö̷̼͎́ẘ̵͝ͅ.̶̴̨͚̟͕̉̉̈́̇
Ỷ̵͕͝o̶̟̭͑̀͝u̸̱̽̿̆'̴̼͓͗ŕ̵̝̠͜e̴̠̿̓ ̴̰̍ǧ̸̪̓o̸̫͗̀i̵̖͗̄̚ͅn̸̳͇͌͆g̸͈͕͠ ̴̙̠̾̀́t̶̡̻͚̐̆ö̷̳́ ̵̣̹̪̈́̌d̵̡͕̂̐̇ị̴̀̑͠e̸͖̖̝̎̎̕.̸̡̹̽̍͑ ̵̘͈͗̇̿K̶̛͖͚̬͗͠ï̵̧̭͝ḻ̴̔̿l̸̮̗̍͛ ̷̥̏̊͝ỳ̷̢͓͍̽ó̵͙̀u̷͎͖̤̇́͠r̷̥͐͋s̸̳̹̄e̵̯̜͎̽͛̚l̵̡̯͍̒͑̈́f̴̡̑̓.̴̳͎̅̂̄ ̶̮̻̊͑͒E̸͈̼͊̍n̸̜̞̓d̴͔̊ͅ ̵͚̲͆͌͝i̷͔̳̔̾ṫ̴̘̈ ̴̧̢̥͛͋n̵̺͔̈͒ō̴͚̊w̵͔͚̞̽̈̒.̴̷̰̼͖̺͕̏̌͠
Y̸̖̟͑́͝o̵̢̹̾̓ǔ̵̢͍̗͒'̵͓͚͍͋̒͝ŗ̶͚͈̓e̸̜̙͐̋̚ ̴̻͙̾g̶̪̓̔̿ô̴̢̫̪̈́͝ĩ̴̡̡͂͑ṉ̴̻̖͂̅͆ĝ̵̛̮̬͓ ̸̹͙͍͐ţ̵̤̾̌o̶̱͉̅͛ ̸̢̞̈́̾d̸͚̊̈́̕i̸͙̾̽̿ẽ̷̡͠ͅ.̸̺̄ ̵͚̘͍́͐K̷͓͗ȉ̸̦̬̈l̴̺͚̔̀͝ḽ̷͉̪̊ ̶̰̟̗̈y̶͖͆̓̇o̶̹̅̇͠u̶̢̔r̴̘͌́ͅs̶̲̍̅͝ẻ̷̠̪͆l̸̟̓̃̒f̵̢̫̈́̚.̸̬͋͝ ̵̖̦̆E̵̜̗̙̔n̵̙̜̹͊̎d̸̺̆̏ ̵̛̩͛ī̷̧̺̤̈́ṫ̶͉̺͝ ̴̡̲̐͑n̴̞̹̺̾ō̴͎͔̯w̸̪͔̙͂̉
.̶̶̛͚̘͐̂Y̸͉̪͆ô̸̡̔ǔ̸͉̬'̶̓͛͊͜ͅr̸̮̙̝̾̓è̵̮ ̶͙̺̆̒g̴͖͚͂͠ơ̶͈̝̂͆i̴̜͒̃̔ń̴̺͍̑̓g̷͎̪͒̕ ̴̧̮̖͗t̸̖͊o̴̬͋ ̵͕̪̰̋d̵͕̹͗̓ḯ̶̜̦e̵̬̤͔͆.̵̨̀̕ ̷͎̹̈́K̷͍̈́̊i̴͈͂̅̓ļ̵̯̮̑l̴̯͚̰͌̈́ ̴̜̜͘ỳ̴̹̩̫̈́o̷͉̲͂̀̅u̵̧͉̦͋̔r̸̻͆s̷͈̹̊́ĕ̶͔̩͕l̵͈͎̭̓́f̶̮͔̬̓̾.̴̣͕̪̎̚ ̶̤͎͋̏Ȩ̷̜͖͌̈ṉ̷̑̐̕d̴̛̩̋ ̵̻̦̝̔i̵͖̻̋ẗ̸̠̖̱ ̶͉̙͍̈́̉̀ň̴̤̱͍o̴̢̺̫̾̈́w̷̫̟̼̿͑.̴̵̨̭̜̘͊͆͝͠
Y̴̖̭̍̈̏o̶͖̩͑͂ů̵̝̻̈́'̸̹͒̍r̸̤̋é̴̮͉̠ ̴̡̠̎͝ġ̴̣̖̗̏o̸̗͇̗̔i̸̖̍ṋ̷̢͔̂͋̈́g̶̖̩̎̕ ̶̫̲̹̿̕t̵̤͐̌̀o̷̙̘͎͋̚ ̸̟͕̄̿͛d̸̰̪̕ȉ̵̗̒͝e̶͖̖͠.̶̫͛ ̸̡̝͖̓͒́K̶̠̯͕̉i̴̤̘̍͌̚l̴͎͋̀ḽ̵̢̇̀̄ ̵̖̏y̸͍̾͜͜ō̵̪͓̊ũ̶̹̱̀r̵̪͕̫̒̋s̴͙̟̱͛͋é̶͎͉ĺ̷̬̀̍f̷͇͕͓͒̿̚.̸̬̂ ̸̨̥͑È̸̮̻̩̏̕n̸̮͕̓͗̉d̶̡͇̯̊ ̶̢̹͑̓̒i̵̲̍̊͗t̷̳͈͋ͅ ̸̧͠n̶̜͌̽̿ȯ̶̟̼̟ẅ̶̙̹́̚
.̵̷͎̞͙̝̃̑̍̈͜Y̵̛̙ò̸̡̟͜ủ̸̧̫̩'̴̜̭͝r̷̭̻͙̓ḙ̵̑͒ ̷͚̣̼͛̊̉g̷̲̜̱̀̓͊o̷̡͔͋͛ͅĩ̸̬̦̰n̴̢̖͠ġ̵̺̩̙̚ ̵̰̭̘̌͠ṭ̵͋͛͠ŏ̶̰͖̫ ̵̨̅d̸̖̆i̸̛̜̩͌e̷͖͚̭̿́.̵̯̘̱͐ ̶̭̈́̾Ķ̴̣̉̊ị̷̙̑̊l̴̡̥̿̚l̸̥͎̘͛ ̶̧̻͒͌͝y̵̺̾o̶̟͌ȕ̵̡͉̤̆͋r̷͔͐͠ş̷̲̓͂͠e̵̱͐̈̈́l̷̥̰̍̉̄f̸̺̌̀͜.̸̛͈̲͛̽ ̵͚͔̣̓̀͝E̶͍̅͌̄ͅņ̸̥̄̔̐d̴͚̈́͠ ̴͈̝̤̋̆i̷̺̘̅͗͗ͅṯ̷͎̂̈̀ ̶͉͋ͅn̷͎͔͚̿͑o̶̧̯̅͛͗ẁ̵͉̜̀͊.̸̖̭̈́̇̄

The entity drew closer and closer to Elizabeth. The helpless doctor was submerged deeper and deeper into the rot. The smell of decay plugged her airways. She was blinded by a total void, a blackened abyss. This was it. This was the end. She was going to die. Elizabeth was going to die. Drowning alone in a pool of muck, her chest dumping blood everywhere. She couldn't move. She couldn't fight. All she could do was accept. All she could do was repent.

*GASP*

Elizabeth shot up from her bed, wide awake. Her eyes trembled, her arms quivered. Her hair was an utter mess. Her heart continued to race; her breaths remained rapid. Droplets of sludge clung to her skin and clothes, staining them. Elizabeth scanned the room. Empty. The soft sunlight peak through the curtains. The faint tweeting of birds sang out from just outside. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Everything was just how she found it. Except for one small thing. One of Elizabeth's scalpels, resting on the bedside counter. It wasn't in the bag where Elizabeth left it, and she never recalled taking it out either. In fact, her bag was resting on the doorhandle, right where she left it, unopened, untampered. Elizabeth stared at the medical instrument. She stared at it for a very long, very uncomfortable time. She leaned over slightly, slowly taking her hand off the bed. Then, in a moment of weakness, in a moment of desperation, in one swift motion, she swiped it off the table and held the blade to her other wrist. Sobbing, tears streaming down and further staining her dress. Her arm shook, making it impossible to make clean, straight lines. With every second, Elizabeth ever so slight drew the blade closer and further from her wrist, bobbing up and down. Up and down. Her commitment to the act was shaky and unsure, just like her commitment to life itself. Amongst all the wishes for an end to the suffering, she just wished the universe would give her a sign, a push in the right direction, up or down.

"Liz!" Vera called out from the hall, knocking on the door. "They've got free breakfast downstairs if you want anything!" Elizabeth stopped, but still held the scalpel over her wrist.

"Maybe she's still asleep?"

"Maybe. We did drink a lot last night." She eavesdropped on their conversation. "Should we wake her?"

"Nah. Let her rest. She's been through a lot. A lot more than we have."

"Yeah. You're right. Come on, let's go. I'm starving." The couple walked away, and their words trailed off. Elizabeth waited for a few seconds. She sat and she waited. Soon her sadness turned to frustration. She groaned as she threw the scalpel to the floor. Elizabeth then fell backwards in her bed. Staring at the ceiling, she regained her composure, she caught her breath, and she closed her eyes. Elizabeth was going to die. It's a fact she knew intimately. As this quest drew to a close, so did her life.

But that day is not today. Today is a day for rest. Because although her resolve may waver, Elizabeth will continue her fight, not for herself, but for those she loves.