The Weapon of Waupun
This story contains gruesome details of fictional deaths as well as mentions of miscarriage. Proceed at your own risk
Pritchard Greene is an innocent man, but I am recommending he remain in solitude or, more mercifully, be executed. As I’ve noted in the attached evaluation form, it is my professional opinion that Mr. Greene is suffering from a severe case of Dissociative Identity Disorder, but given recent events, I recommend that no single guard be left with Mr. Greene for more than 2 hours.
-Excerpt from the letter written by Dr. Colin Yeh to the warden of the Waupun correctional facility.
From the Journal discovered in Dr. Yeh’s home in Ripon, WI. Dated December 18, 2014
On the 10th of December 2014, I was to meet for the first time a man of terrible repute - a Mr. Pritchard Greene who, it was told, had mutilated the body of his partner, Russell Parker, beyond all point of recognition. This was, unfortunately, commonplace in my field. What enthralled me about this specific case were the enigmatic events that unfolded in the wake of Mr. Greene’s incarceration.
It began with the unsettling experience of the guards assigned to monitor him. On two separate occasions, the acting guard in charge of monitoring Mr. Greene began experiencing vivid hallucinations of unexplainable proportions that sent them into a full stupor. They eventually emerged, but not unscathed - they were sent home to recuperate and hastily quit the next morning. It was gossiped that they had some incredulous nightmares that frightened them enough to quit without notice. A rumor somewhat corroborated by the effects afterward.
One of the guards, burdened with a growing dependency on alcohol, found himself on the precipice of being taken to Waupun. Seized by a sudden, desperate fear, this guard fought his captors, breaking free from their grasp, only to hurl himself before the relentless force of an oncoming Ford Truck. On the same night as this incident, three other guards who had spent considerably less time with Mr. Greene began experiencing an eerily similar nightmare. The only explicit commonality was a phrase that Mr. Greene had uttered often - “Elgh ghetrea e Walqua” - but each shared a fantasy of cosmos and massacres.
It was within this mounting vortex of inexplicable occurrences that I, Dr. Colin Yeh, found myself drawn into the abyss of Pritchard Greene’s consciousness, poised to confront the indescribable horrors that awaited. The path ahead beckoned with trepidation, as I sought to unravel the shroud of mystery that surrounded this man, a dark labyrinth of fragmented identity.
My attempts to engage the guards who shared the haunting dream proved increasingly fruitless, as each one grew more reticent than the last. I entertained the notion of contacting the hospitalized guard, but the specter of the aforementioned Ford incident loomed too ominously. Instead, I resolved to arrange a meeting with Mr. Greene himself, driven by an insatiable curiosity that clawed at the depths of my being. In exchange, I would furnish the warden with my assessment of Mr. Greene’s condition and advocate for his potential transfer to Aurora Hospital in Wauwatosa. Until my evaluation was complete, the wing that housed Mr. Greene remained off-limits to any guards, a precautionary measure born of the eerie convergence of events that unfolded during that fateful day of the communal vision.
The eve of my meeting with Mr. Greene presented my wife, Emily, with a coincidental, but frankly disturbing dream - one in which she bore witness to Mr. Greene’s infamous acts. Not sharing my interest in the dark recesses of the human psyche, I presumed she had stumbled upon news about the murder or perhaps inadvertently overheard discussions with my colleagues. Nonetheless, the disruption of my sleep set a disquieting tone for the meeting.
Around 3 p.m., I arrived at the imposing edifice that was the Waupun Correctional Institution. The design, resembling a castle, clashed disconcertingly with the colossal presence of the nearby Waupun water tower. Yet, when examined in isolation, the prison itself possessed an almost fantastical allure. A younger version of myself would have relished the prospect of sojourn within a structure akin to a fortress. The tales of Mr. Greene are vastly different than the stories of Aragorn or King Arthur so with this in mind, I am delighted that I have control over how long I am to stay here.
Stepping beneath the stone archway, I was cordially greeted by a man who, quite possibly, ranked as the largest in all of Wisconsin. Towering at a height of approximately 6’7”, with dark skin, a bald head adorned by a Socratic beard, an imposing frame of around 300 pounds, and easily the most genuine smile I’ve encountered. That is, until I disclosed the purpose of my visit. An unsettling silence fell upon him, his countenance wavering between fear and compassion. Local myths had no doubt shaken this massive man to the point of speechlessness. He began leading me down the long, eerie corridor of cells taking a sharp left turn before leading me along a footpath that veered toward the prison yard. Roughly 100 feet later, we entered a subsection of the penitentiary—a realm presumed to house some or perhaps all of the solitary prisoners. It is true for most that solitary confinement is a horrendous punishment, not fit for misbehavior. For Mr. Greene, though, the circumstances were undeniably distinct.
My behemoth companion muttered something to a striking, stoic guard near the door, who gestured expansively down the hall. “Number 37,” she informed me before ushering me inside and promptly sealing the door behind me. An immediate, suffocating silence settled in. I proceeded cautiously, traversing the corridor, my ears attuned to the faint murmurs reverberating and growing louder as I drew nearer to the iron door adorned with the number 37 that was crudely spray-painted over with three sixes. It seemed a fitting detail within the context of Waupun’s community, considering the proximity of a small Lutheran church, just a stone’s throw from the prison. Abnormalities far from our worldly understanding often find blame placed on devils and demons, for surely no human could be capable of such terror. Yet, bearing witness to the horrors unleashed by Dahmer and the like, I have found that humans themselves are oftentimes more devilish than the devils they fear.
Inside the chamber, a discourse of voices, each with its distinct tone and character, filled the air. However, I struggled to discern the meaning behind their utterances. I pressed my ear to the door being careful to stay out of the way of the small window, lest Mr. Greene catch a glimpse of my approach.
“Algule yuf hrahgess.. streetwise place visage.. e vite tyekk ghirid vut jj manik”
Peering into the cell with my left eye, I nearly recoiled out of my own body. A single obsidian eye met mine right at the window. He must have spotted my approach down the corridor, yet something about his gaze unsettled me. He continued his ramblings, seemingly unblinking or perhaps blinking only when I did. He was a disheveled fellow, not unlike some of the stories I’d heard of him prior to Waupun. The extended stay in exile seemed to manifest in pale white skin, wispy white locks, and dark blemishes peppering his face. Strange for a man of 33 years to appear so geriatric.
“Hello Mr. Greene!” I bellowed, “My name is Dr. Colin Yeh. I’m here to talk with you.” He offered no response, merely continuing his murmuring. “I’m going to open this hatch now so we can hear each other clearer!”
Swinging open the food hatch, I discovered what I initially mistook as a dialogue between two versions of the same voice was a chorus of maybe 4 or 5 voices flooding the corridor. It was as though an unseen crowd had congregated, engaged in conversations with one another. How a single man obtained this vocal prowess is still unclear to me but by the time I acknowledged the existence of these voices, they fell silent.
A voice beckoned from the hall, “Dr. Yeh! It’s time!”
I glanced at my watch. “4pm?!” I thought to myself. I must have lingered more in my travels from the entrance of the bastille than I thought. “Goodnight Mr. Greene, I’ll see you soon, alright?”
Peeking into the oppressively quaint cell, I observed him perched upon the stone shelf near the rear window, akin to a gargoyle surveying the spires of Notre Dame. He did not respond to my farewell.
Departing that wretched castle, I anticipated relief, yet instead, an increasing pressure constricted my rib cage, while a dull ache throbbed within my head. The fatigue of the late evening setting in, I drove home carefully, determined not to let my condition jeopardize my safe journey.
Late that night, Warden Guthrie called for a brief on the meeting and if I had gathered any preliminary diagnoses. I explained to her that I hadn’t spoken to Mr. Greene for more than a minute. After a lengthy silence, she suggested I take all the time I need to make my decision. I thanked her for her time and for arranging these meetings and retreated to bed. Sleep evaded my grasp.
Though I knew no physical manifestation of Mr. Greene could possibly follow me from Waupun, an unsettling sensation lingered, as if something less, or perhaps more, than human had attached itself to my being. Emily’s company, usually a source of solace, only intensified this feeling. What form might she assume during the bewitching hours of the night? The white noise of the box fan failed to distract my imagination from conjuring crude figures out of ordinary shadows. I could have shut my eyes and retreat into the peaceful sanctuary in my mind if not for that burning blackness of Mr. Greene’s right eye. The searing, disintegrating sensation isn’t adequately describable with any language or imagery that I’m aware of. In my sleepless suffering, my mind drew inspiration for further self-affliction and reminded me of Oliver and what could have been.
Emily was a woman entranced by the enigmatic allure of the night sky, a celestial tapestry that ignited her imagination and beckoned her to explore its secrets. Our paths first intertwined at the Manfred Olson Planetarium, where Emily immersed herself in the captivating realm of astronomy. Her fervor for the cosmos burned like a distant star, casting a radiant glow upon her every endeavor. But when we got pregnant with Oliver, she made the difficult decision to leave her astronomical pursuits behind, and we settled in Ripon to embrace the joys of family life.
It was during the second trimester of her pregnancy that I noticed a shift in Emily’s behavior. Now nocturnal, she would slumber through much of the day, only to awaken with the onset of darkness. As the moon ascended to its zenith, Emily’s footsteps would echo through the quiet streets, her ethereal whispers carried on the night breeze. In those wakeful hours, she would engage in ceaseless conversations or serenade our unborn child with absent-metered lullabies. Though she had relinquished her role as an astronomer, her connection to the celestial realm seemed to intensify, leaving me both fascinated and concerned.
Then, the tides of fate dealt us a grievous blow. In the seventh month of our pregnancy, the unthinkable transpired, and we tragically lost Oliver. The weight of our shared grief threatened to engulf us, yet within Emily, a peculiar transformation occurred. In the face of unimaginable loss, she appeared to find solace and even a semblance of happiness. It was a bittersweet revelation that perplexed me deeply, for it seemed to accentuate the emotional distance between us during those trying times. As I grappled with my own self-doubt and anguish, the dark corners of my mind entangled me in a web of introspection, leaving me adrift until the first light of day.
My wife slept peacefully and I resented her for it.
Two more nights, plagued by restless sleep, preceded my next scheduled encounter with Mr. Greene. Exhaustion and perhaps a rising sense of fear cast a looming shadow over the day. I arrived nearly 5 minutes early, at 2:15pm, my clammy palms latched to the steering wheel. Subconsciously, I offered prayers to some unknown deity and stepped towards the inevitable. This meeting was specially arranged to be almost two hours, so I had the foresight to bring a foldable lawn chair with me. If I were to come face-to-face with Mr. Greene once more, I might as well be comfortable. Walking up the pavement, I locked eyes with the same guard from the solitary building at my last meeting.
“Dr. Yeh?” she inquired, her curiosity evident. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon!”
Wit was never my forte, so I surprised myself when I replied, “Ain’t no rest for the wicked.” which elicited a shared chuckle.
“Back to greener pastures?”
“Heh, duty calls, I suppose.” I smirked, catching a glance at her name tag. Officer Callahan
“Alright, I’ll take you.” She said as we traversed the wrought iron veil of safety.
I’m sure there was some small talk between the gates, but I cannot summon them from the depths of my memory. The forthcoming interaction is one that haunts my thoughts endlessly. I wonder, had I approached things differently, could Mr. Greene have lived out his remaining days as an ordinary man? Could I have done the same? There is little use in dwelling on it now but its presence in my mind is so… terribly clear that I could not have mistaken what I witnessed. The conversational details leading up to this, when corroborated by Officer Callahan, should prove me to be of sound mind, because the following event would otherwise immediately render me psychotic by my peers.
After propping up my lawn chair, I peered through the door’s rectangular window and exhaled a small relieving breath. Pritchard Greene was sitting on the corner of his bed, his gaze fixed blankly upon the wall. I swung open the hatch.
“Mr. Greene!” He turned to face me. “It’s Dr. Yeh! I hope I left a lasting impression during that peculiar minute and a half last week.” His stare, still vacant, seemed even more perplexed.
“What’s going on? Why am I in here?” He asked. His head darted around the door frame, but his eyes did not move independently from his head.
“Is it alright if I call you Pritchard?” He nodded. “It appears you may be unwell Pritchard. I’m here to see how unwell. I’m going to ask you some questions that might seem silly but please answer them directly. Is your name Pritchard Greene?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Uhh.. no, I suppose I don’t.”
“Okay, it’s December 13th, 2014. Do you live on 1853 Edgewood Dr., Waupun, WI?”
“Yes I do.”
“Do you know what happened on November 23rd of this year?”
“Everything is fuzzy, sir. I didn’t even know what day it was. I can’t even see anymore.”
“Wait what? Are you telling me you’re blind?”
“As a bat.”
This was a new development, and it presented several intriguing possibilities. It occurred to me that Mr. Greene’s gaze may not have been directed at me; perhaps he was struggling with his own vision, which could explain why he was peering through that window with his solitary right eye.
“Do you know how long you’ve been blind?” I inquired.
“I don’t know much of anything at the moment. All I know is I woke up in this… cell? some time today without my vision. Sun hasn’t gone down yet.”
“Understood, thank you for the explanation Mr. Pritchard. Okay so I am going to start on some tougher questions that might trigger some… unpleasant memories. Is it alright if I do this?”
“I got a choice?”
“Yes sir, if you don’t feel comfortable, we can do this some other time.”
“… well, I don’t got much else to do in here I suppose.”
“Okay so going back to before you woke up… what do you remember last?”
“I think I was headed to check on my partner, Russell. He was cooped up in that shed of his and I hadn’t heard from him in a while.”
“I see. Were you two on good terms?”
“Good terms? Always. Even when were bad, we were good…” a sincere panic began to rise in Pritchard’s voice, “what happened to Russell? Is he okay? What am I doing here? Where is Russell?”
Perhaps I should have tried to calm him, but I think it unfair to judge a guilty conscience by fabricating circumstances. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Russell is dead.” A sobbing fit ensued. “Pritchard, I know you’re only beginning to mourn, but I need to know if what I’ve told you has surfaced any new memories of that night.”
“Did.. did I do something to Russell? What did I do?”
At this point, the evidence pointed towards Pritchard suffering from a severe case of Dissociative Identity Disorder as a result of his unbearable trauma. Under normal circumstances, I would probably have resigned myself from this case early but some evil curiosity compelled me to keep pressing. “Mr. Greene, it would appear, based on the way the police found the scene that your partner was murdered and mutilated in ways not seen in the history of Waupun.. of human history in fact. I believe this to be the work-“
Now until this point, I could only see fragments of Mr. Greene whilst eye-level to the food hatch. My viewing angle through the opening was directly pointed at an interior wall. The thing that prevented me from finishing my spiel was a low groan followed by a second or two of that same ventriloquist auditory phenomenon–crowds of voices swallowing the open air–from the first meeting. It was followed by a deafening silence.
Attempting to move quietly, I rose to my feet, hoping not to disturb or worsen whatever was transpiring. However, my efforts were in vain as the flimsy lawn chair betrayed my intentions. I froze, waiting for the atmosphere to settle. After a few moments, it seemed that Mr. Greene had likely relaxed, and I cautiously lifted my leg to take a step toward the chamber door. But before I was able to land my foot in the linoleum, I heard the most despicable, hellish noise like sliding a large boot through marshlands but infinitely more grotesque. I stepped obliquely to attempt a distant view into what made that awful noise and was.. unfortunately.. successful.
There was no mistaking the visceral scene before me. Mr. Greene’s vital organs, still pulsating, hung by stretched tendons along the surface of his body. Intestines small and large strewn along the floor, raw muscle tissue torn and exposed, but… standing. It was as if something scraped every last bit of flesh off of his bones and slopped it back on like some horrendous, macabre papier-mâché sculpture. I must have looked at this scene for more time than my own reflexes would allow because the image is still exceedingly clear in my mind as I imagine it was for Mr. Greene as his partner’s body was found in a similar fashion.
Overwhelmed with terror, I couldn’t hold back my scream. I sprinted down the corridor, through the exit, and flung myself onto the grass outside. “HELP!” was all I managed to muster before exploding in a vomiting fit. I could hear the guards clambering into the solitary chamber to investigate, but in my panic, I failed to notice at the time that they were two unfamiliar guards whom I had never met. It also began to dawn on me that dusk had already passed by the time I made it out of that hall of madness. I couldn’t bear to look at my watch; it would serve no purpose anyway. The two guards returned calmly through the door.
“Dr. Yeh, are you alright?” one of them asked.
“I’m… I’m fine. Did… did you see what happened to Mr. Greene?!”
They exchanged glances. “Sir, Mr. Greene was sleeping when we checked on him. What did you see?”
Stunned and embarrassed, I rose to my feet. I had no choice but to trust their word since it became apparent to me that I was losing touch with reality. The entire interaction had likely lasted no more than ten minutes, and yet, it was already well past sundown. I pushed aside the questions racing through my mind and decided to leave immediately. On my way out, I encountered Warden Guthrie, who exchanged a few words with my chaperone before turning her attention to me.
“Hey Dr. Yeh, let’s maybe call it here. I think I’ve learned enough about Mr. Greene’s condition to make a decision. Thank you for your time and evaluation.” The pitiful tone was more damaging to my ego than I would like to admit. I am a psychologist, trained to understand the workings of the mind, and yet, I couldn’t grasp the reality of what was happening right in front of me. I simply nodded and left as swiftly as I could. Once seated in my Corolla, I noticed my hands were shaking fervently and could not quiet the thump of my own heart in my ears. I breathed deeply in an attempt to calm myself and think only about getting home to my wonderful wife. Emily would surely settle my fears and connect me back to this reality. I started the ignition and the Infotainment screen lit up. 7:38?! How had more than five hours vanished in the span of 10 minutes? How had the guards allowed me to stay past my allotted time? More importantly, how had I manifested such a gruesome image of Mr. Greene towards the end? I shoved these questions aside and drove home unsteadily.
I arrived home to a warm meal which would have soothed me if not for the giant slab of meat on my plate. Stomaching a steak after the spectacle at the prison would be a true feat of my constitution. I ate what I could and prepared for sleep having only utilized a fraction of my waking hours. I was spent beyond all comprehension and sleep embraced me with open arms. I wish that were the end of it. If the story were to end here, perhaps I could have suppressed the terrible memory of Mr. Greene and lived out a relatively happy life. But it did not end here.
This night’s events crept upon me like a haunting melody, its eerie notes resonating through the corridors of my consciousness, entwining with the tendrils of my imagination, and casting an ominous shadow upon the fragile fabric of my reality. The air grew thick with anticipation, as if the very atmosphere conspired to reveal secrets that lay dormant in the depths of the unknown. With each passing moment, the world around me seemed to shift, and I found myself teetering on the precipice of something extraordinary and terrifying, a dance between the realms of the rational and the ethereal.
The dream… or.. vision that plagued my slumber that night has desecrated any chance at normalcy for me - a revelation from the perspective of Pritchard himself. I watched from his eyes as Pritchard stumbled drunkenly into the wretched shed where he found his husband in a trance-like state. It is here that I realized I am watching the events of Russell’s “murder” unfold–like Emily supposedly had only a few nights ago. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t coax even a blink out of him. Russell’s pupils had nearly swallowed their respective irises, while the whites of his eyes had turned a sickly milky yellow. Naked and seated in a chair, he stared upward at the corner of the ceiling, uttering incomprehensible words in a foreign tongue—an eerie parallel to Mr. Greene’s current state. Slapping and shaking Russell had no effect. Now sober, I began to scream, desperation consuming me. Only after exhausting all efforts did I finally follow Pritchard’s gaze toward the object of Russell’s fixation.
A figure–its form fluctuating and contorting, pulsating with indescribable colors that shimmer and bleed into our perception. Its limbs, if they can even be called such, extend and retract in an ever-shifting pattern, like an otherworldly dance. It possesses no discernible head or face, but its presence resonates with an alien intelligence that reaches into the deepest recesses of the human psyche. Surrounding the being was an outline of what I can only describe as “pure black” pushing and pulling in tandem with the figure itself. The edges of the black outline seemed to morph the objects behind it, the galvanized steel seemingly curving up and into the void. Astonishing, riveting, and altogether horrific. It was not a malevolent being, yet it was not peaceful. Using language, I can only describe it as the manifestation of true cosmic indifference.
As I collapsed to the floor, my body trembling with a potent mix of terror and disbelief, I sought refuge in the sanctuary of the shed’s corner beneath the sturdy workbench. From this vantage point, I peered through trembling fingers, my gaze transfixed on the macabre spectacle unfolding before me. The ethereal being descended upon Russell, drawn to his misguided attempt to embrace its otherworldly presence. In that fateful moment of contact, Russell’s very essence seemed to unravel, his form contorting and contending with forces beyond mortal comprehension. His flesh and bones twisted and elongated, their movements defying reason and sanity.
The air in the shed grew heavy, as if charged with an arcane energy, while the pendant lights above us flickered and shattered, showering the scene in a cascade of sparkling glass shards. In the wake of this chaos, a blinding radiance enveloped the room, its brilliance transient yet searing. As quickly as it had appeared, the light receded, leaving only darkness in its wake, a darkness that felt comforting in comparison to the eldritch aura that had suffused the space moments before.
With trepidation, I mustered the courage to rise from my crouched position, cautiously inching closer to where Russell stood, or what remained of him. The shed’s shadows concealed his form, but I fumbled through the grotesque amalgamation of raw, melded flesh and fragments of bone, my touch eliciting a horrified shriek from deep within my soul. It shattered the stillness of the night, rousing Emily from her slumber and drawing her to my side in an attempt to offer solace. Yet, in the face of such unspeakable horror, what solace could truly assuage the depths of my shattered psyche?
My gaze drifted towards the perpetual calendar and clock on the side table, their familiar presence now taunting me with the realization of lost time. It took several agonizing moments for my hazy mind to register the truth revealed by those unyielding markers of time.
“December 17, 2014” “01:53 a.m.”
Three days had slipped through the veil of existence, swallowed by a void that rendered my consciousness oblivious to their passing. The memories that should have occupied those lost hours remained fragments scattered in the recesses of my mind, their meaning obscured by an impenetrable haze. The weight of those elusive moments pressed upon me, begging for revelation, yet I found myself adrift in a sea of unanswered questions, clutching at the ethereal tendrils of my own fractured reality.
As I cried in Emily’s arms, I realized the weight of these experiences was too much to bear alone. I needed to confide in my wife, hoping she would ground me and provide a sanctuary in the face of this mounting horror. I knew that only by confronting the truth and seeking support could I hope to regain a semblance of normalcy in my life. With determination, I vowed to share my harrowing encounters with her, hoping that together we could find answers and face the darkness that had enveloped me.
As I relayed the horror that I just witnessed in my dormancy, I noticed Emily was altogether unwavering, intently fixated on each succeeding detail. Nearing the end of the story I expected some form of recoil or disgust, but instead was met with awe beyond that which I knew Emily to possess. We sat in silence for a while until she finally disturbed it.
“I believe you.” She starts empathetically “In fact, I had the exact same dream the other night.”
I recalled her night terror about the case, but there was no way she had seen what I had seen and maintained a level head… right?
“Now what I am about to tell you is going to sound crazy but I promise I am of sound mind.” She held my hand and moved closer.
As Emily’s words hung in the air, I could sense the gravity of her confession. Something profound was about to be revealed, something that would connect the pieces of this intricate puzzle. I listened intently, my heart pounding in anticipation.
“You know how I’ve always been fascinated by the cosmos,” she began, her voice trembling with a mix of excitement and trepidation. “It goes beyond a mere interest, Colin. It’s a deep-rooted obsession that has consumed me for years.”
I nodded, recalling her late-night walks, her whispered conversations with the stars, and the haunting songs that emanated from her lips.
“But it wasn’t just a fascination with the stars themselves,” she continued, her eyes glistening with a mix of nostalgia and longing. “It was a connection to something greater, something beyond our understanding. I have glimpsed into a realm inhabited by beings that defy the boundaries of our reality, beings that I have come to know as Elgh.”
My mind reeled at the mention of the name, feeling a peculiar mix of fear and fascination.
“It started when I was pregnant with Oliver,” Emily whispered, her voice filled with both sorrow and wonder. “During those sleepless nights, I wandered under the starlit sky, singing to him. But what I didn’t realize then was that I wasn’t just singing about stars or constellations. I was invoking a presence, a presence that transcends time and space.”
Her words sent shivers down my spine. I held her hand tighter, needing the reassurance that we were in this together.
“And in those moments, Colin, I felt a connection,” she continued, her voice growing stronger with conviction. “I felt as though I was tapping into the fabric of the universe, communicating with beings that reside in the depths of the cosmos. They showed me visions of a grand design, a tapestry of existence woven with celestial threads.”
Emily’s eyes sparkled with an otherworldly light, as if she had touched something divine. She pulled away from my hand and paused, collecting her thoughts.
“These beings, they showed me the true nature of our reality,” she said, her voice filled with a mixture of awe and sadness. “They revealed that we are but insignificant specks in an unfathomable cosmos, and yet, we are part of something greater. They showed me the cosmic dance of creation and destruction, the birth and death of stars, and the eternal cycle that binds us all.”
“I believe, Colin, that our encounters with these entities are not mere chance,” she said, her voice filled with a mix of reverence and determination. “They chose us, they chose Oliver, to witness their existence and understand our place in the grand tapestry of the universe.”
As Emily’s words resonated within me, a peculiar sensation of release washed over my being. I found myself immersed in contemplation, enveloped by a profound silence. Was my beloved wife teetering on the edge of insanity? Was I expected to believe that an otherworldly force had stolen our child from us? That this enigmatic presence lurking in the corner had also claimed the life of Mr. Greene’s partner? For what purpose? If we were nothing more than minuscule specks in the vast expanse of the universe, what conceivable significance could we hold for such a being? These questions swirled relentlessly in my mind, grappling for answers. Yet, before long, they were abruptly shattered by a blinding surge of light, dispersing them into fragmented memories. As swiftly as it had materialized, the radiant illumination retreated into its celestial source—the cornice near Emily’s side of the bed—plunging us once more into an abyssal darkness that mirrored the enigmatic nature of our predicament.
“Emily?!” My hands started searching for her. “Where did you go?!”
My attention was immediately seized by a newfound luminescence emanating from that wretched corner. It was a light that now originated from a figure all too familiar, yet profoundly altered. This Elgh, as it was, retained the perpetual essence of the otherworldly being, but its transformation took on a more jarring and grotesque nature than the one I had only just witnessed in a dream a few minutes ago. A contorted manifestation resembling a sculpted apparition with an unyielding core hovered in the air, its sinewy tendrils and jagged protuberances shifting in a disconcertingly erratic fashion. Some of its movements emitted dissonant noises akin to shattered glass, while others occurred with an eerie, imperceptible subtlety. Overwhelmed by both awe and terror, I stumbled backwards into from the bed, desperate to put distance between myself and this eldritch entity, yet unable to tear my gaze away. In my peripheral vision, I witnessed Emily transfixed, her attention wholly captured by the Elgh. She exhibited no inclination to flee or hide—instead, she approached the abomination with an unsettling confidence that defied reason. I strained to scream out her name, but the air hung heavy and oppressive, rendering my voice feeble and insignificant. The palpable apathy of the cosmic forces engulfing us intensified the terror of the moment, rendering me utterly powerless to prevent her from engaging with the Elgh, as she called out Oliver’s name, her touch making contact with the incomprehensible entity.
In an instant, her corporeal existence dissolved into oblivion, replaced by a horrendous orb of pulsating flesh and bone. The Elgh and the essence that was once Emily engaged in a disquieting ballet of intertwining forces, their movements evoking an unsettling sense of cosmic choreography. For what seemed like an eternity, this macabre dance unfolded before me, though in reality, it lasted no more than a handful of seconds. Then, with a mesmerizing burst of energy, the Elgh disintegrated into a cascade of luminescent particles, while the slop spilled forth, saturating the surface of the bed. The sheer shock of the inexplicable event rendered me immobile, my senses paralyzed as I stared blankly at the lifeless remnants of what was once my beloved wife.
In the aftermath of that horrifying spectacle, I cannot say with certainty how long I remained rooted in that room, my mind consumed by a maelstrom of emotions. But as soon as my trembling limbs regained some semblance of strength, I propelled myself toward the door and descended the stairs in a frenzied rush, my ragged breath echoing through the empty corridors. Collapsing onto the cool tile floor, I allowed myself a moment to gather my shattered composure.
As I steadied my racing heart, the words Emily spoke to me in her final moments echoed in my mind. She had mentioned Oliver, and the notion of connecting to something deeper. It brought a fleeting sense of solace, the notion that perhaps she had found a peaceful release amidst the chaos that unfolded before us. Yet, reason swiftly interjected, flooding my thoughts with a surge of skepticism. Emily was not well, and even if the inexplicable visitation we experienced held some semblance of truth, who’s to say it was not a malevolent force? Her gruesome earthly demise, driven by a desperate longing to reunite with our lost child, spoke of a mind consumed by grief and spiraling into the depths of madness. And just then I realized I was totally alone…
In a concerted effort to preserve my sanity, I sought to document my encounters in this note. In light of the harrowing experiences I have undergone, I have come to realize that the circumstances surrounding Pritchard Greene’s imprisonment are far more intricate than can be summarized by a simple verdict. The clarity with which I witnessed these inexplicable phenomena has left me with an unwavering conviction: Pritchard is an innocent man, tormented by a cosmic entity that defies mortal comprehension. Yet, in the same breath, he poses a peril not only to himself but to anyone who might cross his path. Therefore, I implore anyone who encounters this account to consider the most humane course of action and relieve Mr. Greene of his affliction.
As for myself, I find no solace in surrendering to the clutches of whatever infernal parasite has taken residence within my mind. Whether the events I have witnessed tonight constitute a distorted truth or an unfathomable illusion, I am unable to reconcile them with my fragile sanity. There exists no point along the spectrum of reality that could offer respite or reason for my shattered psyche. I am left beyond redemption, adrift in a realm of torment from which there seems to be only one escape.
Colin
Dr. Colin Yeh hung himself in his home in Ripon on the 18th of December 2014. His wife, Emily, went missing 2 days prior - reported by her concerned sister. Pritchard Greene was indeed transferred to the Wauwatosa hospital but managed to escape during transit, never to be found again.