There is a man sitting in a cosy, dimly lit attic room, holding a book on his lap. The man's clothing is a bit dated and dusty, just like everything else in said room. The heavy taps of rain against the large window to his right sing in a duet with the hearth's blazing inferno.
The man is staring into the fire with a faraway look in his eyes, gently swaying on an old squeaky rocking chair. And as suddenly as the occasional thunder strike outside, he leans forward and snaps his gaze onto you.
That man is me.
"Oh, you were quite expected. Although I can not hear you, I'm still certain of your presence. Allow me to introduce myself," I address you.
"My name is Mathias Moore, but I've learnt that people call others like me by many names."
Narrator and storyteller are just some of our more often used monikers.
"But you aren't here for me. Or at least, in the tales I've read, you're not supposed to be... I believe you are here to behold a story. A saga that will whip you off of your feet and submerge you into some mythical world out there, in the cosmos," I expose calmly, glancing out into the fierce gale beyond the window.
"Regrettably, such lengthy tales, I know not how to offer. Though I have something else that might satisfy you," I exclaim while warmly caressing the book on my lap.
Once I raise the book towards you, you can see that the black leather cover is otherwise thoroughly blank except for the golden letters spelling out the title: 'Hollow Horrors'.
"Now, don't let the label fool you. Despite its name, this tome's contents can occasionally be quite refreshing. From what I've gathered, this book is a compendium of sorts. An endless twisting network of stories and poems, fables and songs."
A large lightning bolt strikes a nearby tree outside, and I climb up from the chair. I walk along the brown floorboards to the hearth and add a log into the flames from a stack of loose firewood.
"I have been living here, reading this book, for years on end, hoping to see its conclusion, but alas, I've yet to get even a glimpse of an epilogue. To be honest, it has gotten rather lonesome reading here alone, so now, if you'll have me, I'm planning on reading this book together with you."
I open the cover and flip the pages rapidly.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
"I know you can't answer whether you'll embark on this journey with me, but since I can feel when you're here, I'll use your presence as a reply... Ah, here's the new page!"
I stop on one of the yellowed pages and blow off the slight dust.
"Through my time reading, I've learned to detect topics between the short stories. The next poems are on the same opening, which often means they are connected to each other somehow. Let us experience together what changes our connection will bring about as we read this book."
I clear my throat and begin calmly reading the inky words drawn onto the thick paper.
"Dozing and drifting,
realities shifting
Til 'woken I was
by shots and glass
Fear tiredness disguises
Many cuts and bruises
Some screams to silence
No out but violence
Well we fought,
or so I thought
Friends slain
It all in vain
For in a pool of blood
Distraught, hot
Those thoughts turned to nought."
The first poem ends, and I take a deep breath of air.
"It seems these people were victims of a crime of some sort. At least the weary main character finally received some rest," I ponder, gazing at the never-ending storm.
I turn back to the book and continue on to the second poem.
"As one conscious fades,
another remains
This one older
Still, not bolder
Saw them die
None left alive
Guilt for escaping
Living, not helping
Though his body fled
His mind, in past, was set
Trauma so deep,
the decline was steep
Not much to lose,
though better a noose
A release he sought
but flawed was the knot
Many years left to rot
Alive, yet inside, not."
Once the second poem concludes, I begin thinking of its meaning: "The second poem's character seemed to have witnessed what happened in the first poem but chose to escape. He was older than the first poem's character, so perhaps, he was their teacher, and the victims were students. I wonder which is a worse fate; dying while helping or living while regretting."
I move on to the third and last poem.
"Empathy is hard
For me, it's painful
From ward to ward
Seemed God, disdainful
Fear of death
Of losing reason
Sleep, a trial run
Abruptly less fun
'No rest for the wicked'
How great that fits...
Psyche through slits
Escaped as bits
What she protected
wound up disrupted
Her reasoning fined
Disorders of the mind"
A few raspy coughs escape me once I'm done reading.
"A disdainful god, huh... I do admit that that was quite the pitiful trio. I interpreted this as a tale of how, although we might feel alone in our suffering, other people, just like us, are going through similar woes, and maybe we are even causing such situations to others. Quite poetic indeed. From death to emptiness to insanity. All so different yet so familiar."
"Anyway, my voice-" My speech grows rough as I cough a couple more times.
My voice seems to be suffering a bit since this is the first time I've spoken aloud in years.
I know not how this connection works, but if you find a way to contact me, please do so. Although the feeling of presence is already a great boon, I'd really love to talk to another person.
No changes will happen at this accursed estate when I'm awake, so I will go and rest for tonight, but I hope to see you here again tomorrow.
I truly need this storm to end...