Wellington Street

In which we take a stroll down a very strange stretch of road.


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Unknown Location "Henry"

“She smiles with all three of her mouths, and in my ears, with my eyes, and within my mind I hear her say the words “Je taime, Henry.”

I find myself leaving the house less and less. She has become my world, and I cannot find a reason to fear such a thing, though I know I should. She whispers things so sweet, offers a fond hello when I arrive home, and always has a meal of some sort freshly made when I arrive, no matter what the hour. Like magic. She speaks of many things, and though the language to not be my own I know every word.

She speaks of lifetimes passed, about times when things were not as they were. When she was still just a keeper of the gate, before her great offense. She speaks of the end of the world prevented, and the loss of a sibling, and of the rage of ancient Gods. But more than anything she speaks of her desire to kill what Gods may be. And she speaks of her love for me.

She follows me whenever I go in the home, though I never see her walk, and I never see her leave the room. She fears the threshold, she tells me. It is all she fears. The passage between the inside and the outside. So she always seems so concerned when I leave, and so thrilled when I get back. She says that I remind her of her lost sibling. It makes her protective.

Sometimes, when she I sleep, she curls up next to me. She is so warm. So soft. But when she does I dream of the most awful things. Wide desert expanses under gray, blackened, stormy skies. The ground cracked and dry though the rain falls like a wall. And I see standing over me something terrible. Something larger than anything I could imagine. Its black fur whipping in the wind, its eyes the color of a dead man. Its teeth mouthing words in a language I cannot understand. Horns twist like gnarled walnut branches from the side of its head, and every time I dream with her next to me, that horrible thing seems to get closer.

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