The Gas Mask & The Sickle
How could have I known someone would be out there—walking in the night—other than myself, for it was late? Should I have resisted the urge to put on the gas mask? Perhaps. Neither of these questions matter in the end, for I have already caused a panic; an incident in the woods, and for that they are now searching me with dogs at their disposal, pointing the way with flashlights equipped with luminosity to a highest degree. They are likely to continue their investigation, as long as the threat of unknown remains.
It all happened so quickly. It was foolish of me to think I was alone. Even here in the city of Krusanmosk, you are never truly alone. Someone or something is always watching. I have felt such a presence since my early youth, not that I am too old as I now write this journal—exactly fourteen years later. So it was even then, for I was fourteen at the time.
This city is that of the dead, especially at night. Yet those few who choose to wander are exceptional people, or very strange people. I consider myself both.
I hope that lady who saw me in that mask, as I was wearing my black leather jacket, black jeans and black shoes to match, did not suffer any mental trauma from what happened. What was I thinking back then? You are never supposed to walk out in the dark—dressed like that—in a gas mask and wielding a bloodied sickle. Blacker than life. My mind was so dark back then, but I did it only because I thought none would see me if I tried a litte horror cosplay, call it weird if you wish. I was young then. It felt like such a great idea. A few weeks later, not so much.
Being a fan of horror films since the age of eight, I gave it no further thought and it was then, that this older lady, who was just out there walking her dog, happened to see me at the end of a long; winding path in the Farkenland’s forest. They used to keep lighting in some parts, and coincidentally, at where she stood was a street light, and where I stood was one as well, although it was running out of electrical power; blinking every now and then. And in the darkness of that night, I saw her staring at me, and then, just like in the horror movies the killer always slowly turns to face his or her potential beholder, I did exactly that—with the gas mask on my face—the sickle in my hand, fully dressed in black. And when the light blinked for one more time and she saw me more clearly, she let out a loud series of screams and her dog started to bark as well, then she commanded her dog—which was a jet–black labradorian retriever—to tag along and so they both ran away. I was a bit shocked at her reaction, but thought nothing much of it. I took off the mask and put it and the sickle partially in my backbag, and decided to head to another spot to meditate upon a rock for the next forty minutes, until.. I heard the sirens of a police patrol car.
She had apparently called the police to look for a shady character out in the woods. Me? Well, at that point I could not deny what had just happened. Then I heard them enter the forest near the place where the lady, who seemed hysterical, had spotted me—with dogs in leashes and flashlights in hands—there were four people there, including the lady. I had already ditched the spot and now observed from a safe distance what on earth was happening. Was I in trouble? I had only scared her, purposefully or not, but now they somehow thought there was a killer on the loose. “I hope none of this ends up in any of the local newspapers, like the last time around.” I thought, lowering my head down, when they targeted their flashlights my way. I stayed there, until I saw them move further to the north of the forest, and at that point I could no longer hear them talking.
Swiftly, I exited the forest by climbing down a small cliff, then I walked on it’s side, jumping on rocks—from to the ground—running down a hill. Then I eased my pace, walked home and hid the items in my room. The true horror of it would follow three weeks and three days later, in that same forest and in the form of a truly dismal discovery. It was outrageous of me to think this would not come to haunt me later on, but I did not expect it to occur so soon. What I found three weeks and three days later, was another iron bucket, yet this time there was only a diary in the bottom of it, no glass, no blood. Just that, lying there, waiting for someone to pick it up. I did. And now.. I regret I did. Why? Because.. there was an abandoned house in another forest only called ″Ithlym″ by strange people, me included. It is an abode of towering cliffs, structures in ruin, car wrecks, broken down pieces of technology and not to mention majestic birches, alders and pines adding green to the scene of nature’s harmony disturbed. It is a place shunned by most folks. I went there alone despite knowing it would most certainly be a trap. And what I thought to be abandoned, was not that at all.
Upon entering the building, I noticed two lit candles on separate antique wooden coffee tables, which had a ritualistic quality to them, and someone praying on the floor, as if to an eldritch; slimy god. It was a raven–haired woman dressed in a red; silky gown with black rose patterns in it, yet she seemed to be paying me no attention at all. Was she drugged? I did not know. Then I tried to turn around—and only for a fleeting moment—saw a tall; long–haired, scar–faced and cloaked man—in the corner—in my blind eye. And when I tried to move from where I stood, he said “Cease.. moving.. now. Why are you seeking for the one who left the gas mask, the sickle and the diary behind? If your answer is not convincing enough, then you are as good as dead.“—”I came to return the mask and the sickle. I do not wish to be a part of this anymore.“—”The first is a right answer, the second is not. Oh, young darkling, there is no turning back from this path. You have been marked. Live as thus. No regrets. Hand me over the diary. Now, you owe me, us. Do not tell anyone about this house or that we ever even met. I will know if you did. I will orchestrate it so, that the local authorities and media will not think nothing of what happened in the Farkenland’s forest nearly three and a half weeks ago. It will simply be.. forgotten. I have eyes and ears everywhere. Farewell. May we never see each other again. And oh...“—”What.. is it?“—”Because you took something for yourself, which was not yours in the first place and did what you was not supposed to do—know this—there will be rains of blood upon the land. Know this... there will be... consequences.”
And now, I truly know what he meant with those words. I curse time and it’s very existence. Fourteen years of my life. Wasted. Blackmailed. I have nothing left. Only buried secrets. Nearly none of those I once knew are alive. Not even I. And so, I must jump down... from this considerably high cliff. If I will perish, then so be it. If I will end up crippled and live on, then so be it. Either way is fine. I can already feel the pebbles crackling beneath my feet, awaiting my next and final move.
*The journal ends here, and is marked with patterned stains of blood. The stains read out: “Farewell...“*
