He was floating.
Or was he falling? The sensation was somewhere in between, an endless descent through unseen chasms that stretched in every direction. He felt weightless, his limbs insubstantial as if his body had dissolved into vapor. A whispering echoed from the blackness, a language both ancient and incomprehensible, slipping into his ears like tendrils of smoke. In his sleep, he shuddered, for the voices carried with them a coldness, a suggestion of vast, unfathomable despair that made him feel small, like an insect under the weight of a vast, indifferent cosmos.
The dream began to shift, his senses sharpening into something more tangible, and he was standing on parched earth beneath a sky the color of dying embers. The horizon was blurred, wavering as if viewed through the distortion of unbearable heat. A landscape stretched before him—worn and cracked, as though the land itself had been scorched by some divine hand, and all life drained from its bones. It was unmistakable, the way the red dirt clung to his shoes, the harsh angles of barren, jagged cliffs—South Africa. Though he had never set foot there, he recognized it instinctively, with the clarity only dreams could provide.
In the distance, something moved—a dark shape, crawling across the horizon, dragging itself toward him with a relentless, unhurried purpose. He tried to look away, to turn back, but found his legs rooted to the ground, as if the earth itself had seized him. The thing came closer, and the closer it came, the less it resembled anything of this world. It was enormous, amorphous, a mass of writhing, shifting shapes, like smoke condensed into flesh. He could not discern its form, only that it was monstrous, an embodiment of all that was hidden in the deepest shadows of the universe.
It spoke to him without words, a voice that burrowed into his mind like nails scraping across raw nerves. He felt its intentions, its commands, and they terrified him beyond reason. It wanted him. Not just his presence, but his soul, his mind, his very essence, all drawn to this desolate place under a dying sky. There was no escape, no mercy in that gaze that saw through flesh and bone and memory, down to the core of what he was.
Images flashed before him, brief, tantalizing glimpses of impossible structures—temples older than time, carved from stone that glowed with a sickly luminescence, etched with symbols that defied understanding. He saw faces twisted in agony, mouths stretched open in silent screams, their eyes empty but still staring, bearing witness to some unnameable terror. He knew, with the certainty that dreams sometimes bring, that these beings had been summoned, as he was now summoned, across continents and aeons, called to this land as if drawn by an invisible thread that wound through their very bones.
A sound filled the air, low and pulsating, vibrating through his teeth and skull until he thought he would go mad. It was a heartbeat—a rhythmic, relentless drumming that came from deep beneath the earth. Each beat resonated with an unbearable heaviness, as if some ancient, slumbering god were stirring, its breath rumbling through caverns miles below his feet. With every pulse, the world around him darkened, colors fading into shades of gray, until he stood alone in a land drained of life, with nothing but the creature before him, and that terrible, all-encompassing sound.
It was then that he felt his own heart falter, stuttering to match the rhythm of that infernal drumming. Panic seized him, but his body betrayed him, sinking into the rhythm, until his pulse was no longer his own, but an echo of that deep, primal force. He felt his will slipping away, his mind unraveling, and in its place, a terrible knowledge began to seep in—a truth that should have remained hidden, locked away in the void. The creature reached for him, its form stretching, folding in on itself, pulling him closer, until he could feel the cold radiating from its very essence.
As it touched him, he saw one final image: a cave, half-buried in the desert sands, carved with symbols that twisted and warped as he tried to understand them. And within the cave, a pit, a chasm that descended into darkness, deeper than sight, deeper than reason. Something was waiting there, its presence pressing against the edge of consciousness, vast and malignant. It beckoned, a void of infinite hunger, and he knew that if he looked, truly looked, he would fall forever.
The creature's grip tightened, dragging him closer to that endless night. And then, as he teetered on the edge, he woke, gasping for air, his heart pounding in time with that ancient, terrible beat.
The night hung thick around the train as it rattled along, a low, droning rhythm blending with the distant hum of insects in the fields beyond. Mohandas sat by the window, his gaze cast out into the darkness, watching the flickers of lamplight as they blurred past. He had come to South Africa with ideals, with a fierce vision of what was just and right, but tonight, as he felt the cold, judgmental stares of those around him, his ideals felt like a fading candle.
The door to his compartment swung open, and in stepped a man in uniform—a conductor with narrowed eyes, his posture bristling with purpose. Behind him trailed another passenger, a man dressed finely in a suit, his gaze sharp and accusing.
"I'm afraid you're sitting in the wrong seat," the conductor said, his tone thin and biting.
Mohandas met his gaze, holding it with a quiet intensity. "I have a first-class ticket."
The conductor's mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That may be, but certain… accommodations aren't meant for everyone."
Mohandas felt his pulse quicken, a small flame of anger sparking in his chest. He clenched his fists, feeling the worn texture of his jacket beneath his fingers, feeling himself tethered to a calm he was determined not to break.
But then the man in the suit spoke, his voice a low, venomous hiss. "I will not ride in the same compartment as one of… his sort."
It was an almost practiced cruelty, polished and barbed. Mohandas could feel his teeth grind together, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he forced himself to hold his tongue. But the conductor had already made up his mind, his hands reaching to grasp Mohandas's arm, the grip firm and unyielding.
He was pulled from his seat, his body half-dragged toward the open door. The cool night air cut against his skin as they shoved him out, his feet stumbling on the gravel beside the tracks. He hit the ground hard, his palms scraping against the rough earth, feeling the sting bloom along his hands and elbows. The train moved on without him, its light dwindling into the distance, leaving him in a suffocating silence, alone under the vast, uncaring sky.
As he lifted himself from the dirt, he looked back toward the receding train, his mind seething with a new, dark determination. The faces of the men who had thrown him from his place burned into his memory like brands, each feature etched in vivid detail. He mouthed their names under his breath, feeling each syllable twist and curl, like a curse taking shape. They would pay for this. One day, somehow, he would hunt them down, and they would know the cold steel of justice.
But the feeling passed as quickly as it came, and he forced himself to take a breath, the resolve tightening into something steadier, something controlled. He began to walk along the tracks, his steps measured, ignoring the dull ache in his body, his mind already moving beyond anger to a strange, eerie calm.
After a few miles, a faint light appeared ahead—the glow of a small station, isolated and worn, barely more than a shack on the edge of the wilderness. He reached it, his steps growing slower as he felt a strange sensation—something like being watched, as though the station itself was waiting for him.
As he approached, a figure emerged from the shadows, seated on a bench beneath the flickering lamplight. The man was thin, pale, his face drawn and contemplative, a faint scowl set upon his lips as he glanced up from his book. Mohandas hesitated, but the man's gaze softened, and he motioned toward the bench beside him.
"Rough night?" the man asked, his voice low and deliberate, with a slight New England drawl.
Mohandas nodded, unable to find words, though he felt the air around this man, this stranger, was somehow heavy, charged with an energy he couldn't name.
The stranger shut his book, revealing the embossed title on the cover—"The Shadows Over Innsmouth"—before slipping it into his coat. "They're quick to remind you of your place, aren't they? This place… it does that to you." He paused, his gaze distant, as if seeing something far beyond the station. "I'm Lovecraft. Howard, if you like."
"Mohandas," he replied, his voice barely a whisper. For reasons he didn't understand, he felt compelled to sit beside this man, as though something beyond reason had drawn them together.
