The Black Sunday Lullaby

The Black Sunday Lullaby

By Ekona Del Rey Monroe

Recovered FAERD Sealed Archive Document 1935 Classification: Level 7 Restricted

Warning: This record was never intended for public release. Some truths are buried for a reason.

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On April 14, 1935, the sky over the southern Plains turned black at noon.

Not dark. 

Black.

The storm didn’t roll in. It descended a living, planet-sized vortex of swirling dust and darkness that swallowed the sun, the horizon, and every familiar shape in the world. 

This was the Black Sun.

Literally, it was the worst dust storm in recorded history, a colossal, roiling vortex that turned day into an unnatural night.

Symbolically, it was something far worse: a temporary eclipse of reality itself.

When the Black Sun arrived, the normal world was briefly swallowed. Light, hope, and safety vanished. The veil between the ordinary and the Mother’s domain tore open.

And the hunting began.

In the small farming town of Cimarron Crossing, Oklahoma, the violin began playing just as the Black Sun swallowed the fields.

Four slow, trembling notes drifted through the choking dust like a mother singing to a child who would never wake again.

A — C — B — A.

Old Man Harlan stepped out onto his porch, tears already cutting clean lines through the dust on his face. 

He looked at the tattered American flag hanging from his porch post, the one with 13 stars.

For a moment, he thought he saw one of the stars flicker and bleed. 

“It sounds like someone’s hurt,” he whispered. “Like a mother cryin’ for her baby.”

He walked straight into the blackness.

He was never seen again.

Inside the Black Sun, the world became nothing.

Pitch black. 

Zero visibility. 

You could not see your own hand in front of your face.

But you could hear.

Screams. 

Laughter. 

Prayers cut short. 

A little girl singing “Jesus Loves Me” in a voice too calm for the end of everything. 

The wet tearing of meat. 

The soft, hungry sounds of something feeding.

And always, beneath it all the violin.

Four notes. 

Repeating. 

Never speeding up. 

Never slowing down.

Some who stumbled out alive swore they saw her,

The Dust Bowl Mother.

Nine feet tall. 

Pregnant belly swollen as if still carrying a child lost decades earlier. 

A tattered white maternity dress hanging in rotting strips, roots and dust clinging to her like a second skin. 

Long, wet hair covering most of her face. 

Empty grey sockets leaking slow dusty pure sand. 

Mouth stretched open in a scream that never ended and sharp long broken glass teeth.

She walked slowly through the storm, violin tucked beneath her chin, playing for the lost children. In her other hand, she carried an old, faded American flag, staring at its stars as if searching for her own child among them.

But she was not alone.

Roaming with her through the total darkness were hundreds of colossal creatures, at least 150 of them lost entities born from earlier storms, transformed by the Pit.

They stood thirteen feet tall and looked like nightmarish, living teddy bears stitched together from rust, old metal, and rotting fabric.

Their bodies were bulky and bear-like, covered in patchy, candy-colored fur stained with dust and dried blood. Rusty metal plates and bolts jutted from their joints like poorly repaired wounds.

Their faces were hidden behind cracked, old gas masks the kind people once wore when the dust first came with hoses dangling like broken umbilical cords.

They moved on all fours, heavy and deliberate, their lion-like claws digging into the earth and their owl-like feet gripping and holding victims perfectly still while they fed.

They did not speak. 

Only muffled, wet breathing and distorted humming escaped their masks as they hunted in the pitch-black storm.

Some survivors swore they also heard something else from deep inside the Black Sun, a deep, thunderous roar like a Tyrannosaurus Rex, shaking the ground.

Others insisted it was only thunder. No one could be sure.

While the Mother lured with grief and the violin, these many gas-masked bear-like creatures stalked and feasted.

They separated families. They pinned screaming children and adults to the ground with owl-like feet. They tore into flesh with lion claws in the total darkness where no one could see.

The Black Sun had turned the world into their hunting ground.

By morning, the Black Sun had passed.

The real sun rose weak and ashamed over a broken land.

Half the town was gone.

Houses stood with doors wide open. 

Tables still set for breakfast. 

Cars left running in the middle of dirt roads.

Bodies lay scattered across the fields like broken dolls. 

Some were missing limbs. 

Some were missing faces. 

Some were simply… gone.

Over 100 million acres of farmland were destroyed that season. 

Tens of thousands of families across the

Plains never recovered. 

Entire bloodlines ended in a single day.

In the years that followed, farmers would occasionally dig up strange bones while trying to plant what little seed remained. 

Bones too large for any known animal. 

Bones wrapped in violin string. 

Bones with small gas mask fragments and rusty metal bolts still clinging to them.

The government called it “Black Blizzard damage.” 

The survivors called it the day the Black Sun came down… and the Mother walked beneath it, reading the stars on our flags.

And somewhere in the Plains, even now, old bones still push up through the dirt like fossils from another age.

Some nights, when the wind is right, people still hear four slow notes drifting across dead fields.

A — C — B — A.

And if you listen long enough…

You might hear hundreds of muffled, wet breaths behind old gas masks  and the heavy, bear-like footsteps on all fours of something very tall moving closer through the dark.

The American Lullaby continues.

It always has.

End of recovered document. 

Further access denied.

The End