The train: As of yet untitled work

[tsathoggua]

Here is a trimmed down version of my story...

The train, Emry Kereru

The rather dirty old train has begun to move and as such i find myself in possesion of an extended period of time, in which i have nothing to do, before i reach my destination,
Nearly twelve mintues have now passed with me sitting here and i think that perhaps the ticket collector, unusual as this is, may have been delayed in some unknown way,
The train shudders violently as we gather speed along a straight section of railway and I muse overthe myriad ways that may be contributing to this unheard of delay, for already we have passed to stops and some have departed without paying,
I slowly begin to inspect the bland inhabitants of the likewise uninteresting carriage and find myself utterly unamazed at its denizens,
The two women behind me gossip loudly on the scandals of their locality, projecting their voices so as to encourage the eavesdropping of strangers,
A young man in a black suit, who has a look of business about him and is trying to draw attention to this fact, turns the page of his newspaper in a loud and unpleasant fashion, creating the obviously intended effect,
How lucky he is, how little he knows,
I think back to the august rites in the days of my youth, the fires, the dancing, the intoxicating ritualism, as we sang our praises to mighty Tsathoggua in midnight N'kai, hah! his newspaper does not tell him about the happenings in THAT place,
Nor do the gossips ever hear tell of the sacrifices to Dagon and great Cthulhu in the half submerged grottos that are the basemnets of Innsmouth, in those abandoned houses, with their locked doors and their boarded windows,
These people know nothing of the world, when the stars are right and the dreamers wake from their slumbers, they will still deny what is laid bare in front of them,
I could endeavor to warn them ,but i shall not for i know the ways of men, they would seek to dismiss my warnings as the ravings of a madman, as always they do with the gift of Azathoth, what fools to deny the gift of a god as the result of unsound mind!
But as no mortal shall heed my warnings i shall instead commit the story of my life to paper and then i shall die, for i am dissillusioned with the life these mortals cling to and i know that a fate far more terrible than death awaits me if THEY should catch me,
Suddenly yet also slowly, the waking world washes over me like a cool breeze, the gates of the dreamlands colsing behind me in perfect timing with the closing of the carriage door,
The grimy, blue-clad man hobbles slowly along the compartment taking each ticket and gingerly punching a whole through its center,
It is not the inexplicable timing of his arrival that draws myslef to the otherwise uniteresting man, neither is it a result of that peculiar sickly sweet odor that wafts throughout the train as he advances closer, no it is the uncanny sense of familiarity to this hideous man that i feel, the look of recognition in those cold black orbs that serve for eyes, though they do not ever blink as eyes are wont to,
the falsely friendly smile that spreads across his grotesque face, a face that is more animal than human and brings to mind the likenesses of goat and frog and canine thing that is characteristic of its kind,
Already i fell the grip of his sorceries taking hold of me, icy cold, desperately i try to fight it, but some unseen appendage, cold and clammy, grips me by the throat and pulls me violently into that hateful maelstrom of furious vengeance that i was cursed to suffer in eternally,
The dreaming old ones do not take kindly to treachery and i was a traitor of the worst kind, for somewhere, in the world that i once called home, sits a thick, string bound manuscript and in it is the story of my life, a life of worship among the terrible witch-cutls of New England, it is my legacy and perhaps...it may assist someone in preventing this terrible end that mankind is fated to suffer and that is so soon to occur...just maybe...