“Were we in the same nightmare? I mean, didn’t we all just nearly get eaten by an... an It?” came from the den.
His other fist closed around the device (resonator). Fire danced across his muscles. His mouth opened in a soundless scream as agony pulsed through his veins like liquid flame with each beat of his racing heart.
The portal opened.
An eldritch smell assaulted his senses, full of the ages and corruption.
Colors swirled inside that portal, unrecognizable colors, unsettling and somehow more than his vision could take. One of them moved forward. Alan needed to cover his eyes, but his hands were full. Another followed.
Horrible and magnificent, They entered: Tentacled creatures covered with lava eyes. Razor-edged beaks overlaid their hungry maws. “Your world is ours again,” their gurgly, moist voices proclaimed. “The Old Ones” Lovecraft had called them. Cthulhu and Azathoth.
Music for the end credits washed from the den.
Unexpectedly graceful, They slid forward, leaving silvery snails’ trails behind them. Tentacles wrapped around Alan’s torso. They squeezed.
And his scream found its voice to sing them praise.
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