Some place somewhere

  A page torn from World Creator Heretic, a journal written by Alteorn Trigxt

  Generally speaking, most civilizations tend to have some semblance of consistency within their available technology. The forms technology can take throughout the cosmos varies so wildly that this rather mundane fact may be difficult to see at times especially when technology can take abstract forms that are undefinable from an alien perspective, but the basic idea is that a society with large scale and highspeed communications will also have large scale and highspeed travel. Natural I use a specific example here because I have a counter example and one that largely defines the next dimension I have found myself in.

  Their overall level of technology is low, they travel by carriage rather than car, their homes are made of wood and their castles of mortar, and they’re a long way off from being struck by falling apples or flying kites out in a thunderstorm. Yet, if they want to reach out to someone on the other side of the world, they could do so in a single night. And it would have to be at night, not that it was impossible to send communications at other times, but because they were not permitted to do so.

  They achieved communication that far outstripped the natural progression of their society by using what was known on the planet I have focused on as ether ways. The space itself appeared as a crystalline-green and narrow tunnel. It could be accessed from anywhere, but always ran in a straight line, yet would lead anywhere the one traversing the space wished to go all while being shared with others for which the same could be true. It defied the standard Euclidean geometry that could otherwise be found throughout this universe. This was because it wasn’t a space that properly existed in the dimension itself, at least not in an orthodox manner. It was a dream space and a shared one at that. While dreaming a denizen could enter it and travel wherever they wished though it took some preparation before sleeping to do so. They would be in a lucid state within the tunnel, but this would only be true from within the tunnel, so the only use the ether ways has actually seen is communication, sort of like an internet that could only be used to send information in person.

  But then why, as I mentioned earlier, were they only permitted to use this space at night? Certainly, that would be the best time to sleep, but it is not as if they couldn’t put them self to sleep during the day if they had a message to send, especially when the preparations for using the ether ways already required a level of medication. This was because there was a peculiar side effect that came from people using the tunnels, that they set away the morning to deal with and kept others out during the rest of the day to keep the problem from being exacerbated. What happens is that when a person walks through the ether ways, they leave detritus behind. Stains formed from their subconscious slowly build up on the walls and floors they walk through. In time the tunnel will become a disgusting place, filled with the abysmal horrors dwelling within people’s hearts whether formed in fear or malice. In ancient times they had only sent sanctified maidens through the ways in order stimy the corruption, but as their civilization’s advanced and their kingdoms grew the need and convenience of allowing all to use the space at will could no longer be combated. It took a long time as the change was not unopposed, but eventually traveling the ether ways became a mundane affair.

  But what were they to do about the tunnel’s corruption. The consequences of letting the filth pile up were very real despite it residing within a mental plane. Not at all less than if they had left their waste to pile up in the streets. The solution was also quite mundane. You could in theory create objects within the ether ways, not that there was much point in doing so. For instance, they could have thought to wage wars inside the tunnels, summoning weapons as they battled, but it was not such a place that they would die in the real world if they died there. But the diseased build up that crusted the passageway, as ghastly and phantasmal as it looked, was as it was, just a stain. So, the weapon they chose to summon from their imaginations to combat this creeping tide was nothing more than a bucket and a mop. That’s right, the taboo of entering the ways during the daylight hours was nothing more than being closed for cleaning.

  Thinking of the ether ways makes me ponder on the common trait of humans throughout dimensions to avert their eyes from their own ugliness or at least from what they find ugly about themselves. It is not only for that reason that they feel the need to keep their surroundings clean, there are health concerns after all, but their focus tends to align with the visual rather than the practical. For instance, I’m sure that the reason they have the cleaning of the ether ways happen when its not in use and that they keep the window of operation so tight, is because people don’t want to see the buildup of filth formed from their subconscious. It is my understanding that, like surrealist paintings that won’t allow for misinterpretation, the splatter left from the minds of passersby are clear in what formed them to the beholder. Gazing at the subconscious waste of others, just like the example of a painting, can be enthralling, but also scarring. While the job of cleaning the ways takes no skill, only the ability to mop, it does take a high level of mental fortification.

  I cannot lie. The idea does annoy me quite a bit. Just like those who must put themselves into the thick of waste in order to give the world a clean appearance, so to others must absorb the worst of humanity in order for others to keep their minds unblemished. I see the need for it, but I myself would not create a world that absolutely forces people to stare down the worst of their souls. The idea may be novel as I like, but the degree doesn’t fit my aesthetic. As such I can only label this dimensions current dynamic as unideal.

  But that’s the very reason I came here, isn’t it? I said that I wouldn’t make a world that forces people to stare down the absolute depths of their subconscious and I meant it. But my feelings on the matter change when I’m in a world where they’re already making a point of not doing as such. It’s the order of things you understand? Though it may also be, just as usual, hypocrisy on my part. Before I do the deed, I enter the capital of this planet.

  I approach one of the cleaners who presumably works here keeping the stretch of tunnel in this city’s vicinity in pristine condition. He seems already out of sorts before I speak to him, but when he turns in my direction and beholds the mask I wear inside the hood of my dark cloak, the one that has yin and yang swirls for eyes and a smirk for the mouth, I make sure his consciousness takes on an air of unreality while we speak.

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  We spoke at length, and it was plain to see he was a surprisingly troubled person. Not everything we discussed had to do with the impact his occupation had on him, it seemed it was only tangentially related to what was bothering him in the moment, but eventually I managed to get a picture of the influence it had. He had built up a subconscious disgust for other people and had difficulty connecting with them. He most likely didn’t really understand the essence of this disgust coming not from his experience with people themselves, but from the stains their minds left behind. It must be a lot like someone forming a sense of disgust from depictions of media rather than interacting with people. Now that I think about it things such as television, books, and other media might not be much different than these stains formed as they are from imagination.

  I am somewhat surprised to learn that he is here in that capital to find stains within the ether ways that could be used as evidence of some infidelity among the royals. I do not believe this is a common occurrence so at the very least the majority of this society hasn’t grown stupid enough to believe they could use subconscious imagery as definitive truths, but it does seem like an idea people are obtuse enough to come up with.

  I leave him after a time in a stupor. I don’t know how he will internalize his meeting with a god from beyond his universe, but this is a small thing considering his entire world will soon change, the laws they have known upended for new phenomena. I have studied and considered this dimension enough now. I know how I want to alter it. I will make it so…

  ---------------------------------------------

  The rancid stench of blood and feces burned in my nostrils. Despite the mangled look of them and the flies and worms that crawled upon us, our bodies had not begun to decay. Not enough time had passed for that. It would mean I would be dead if it had after all. Yet we certainly had the visage of decay on our broken limp bodies. The ones that lay ripped but by no claws, torn but by no hands, and lashed but by no whip.

  I saw it in my periphery. Only in my periphery. I could not turn my head. I could not move in any way. It came for me. For us. One by One. Just as I had wanted.

  It is hard to believe that what had befallen us was disease rather than pillage. And disease of the mind at that. This is what happens when the ways are left unclean. When the rot festers and spreads unhindered. Rare a soul that now walks this earth has seen a sight such as this. We are careful. Very careful. We would never let things reach this point. We would leave before we were in danger. If the scrubbers were lost, we would send in others. We would abandon the town. If somehow the disease did set in we would send for help. It would come. No one in this world would want such a thing to spread and the one thing that could be accomplished unbidden in this world is communication.

  One by one it stopped. It stood beside their last bedside. It stood beside their bed of dirt. It asked its question. It offered its favor. Oh mercy! That I could dream it! Would they take it? My brothers of the grave. Would they take it? It only had one. If they would only take it. It would never be mine. It would be beyond my hands.

  There are places of higher risk. Battlefields and the like. The scrubbers may die. They say men at war spread more filth, but no science really supports this. What does put them at higher risk is needing to constantly use the ether ways to send missives. They need it at any time of day and often have emergencies even during cleanings. But that’s only higher risk. It would never actually happen. At worst they could reach the warning signs before help arrived, though I myself have never heard of such a case.

  It approached. Creeping closer and closer. Body by body. They refused its favor. They shut their ears to its question. Would there be a single madman? I only needed one. It Creeped. It never seemed to walk. It only stood. It only shuffled. Body by body. They gave everything. Everything just to shake their heads. Everything to refuse its favor. Everything to deny its question. In the pit of hell I was only surrounded by sane men.

  So, it was difficult to accomplish. Even in a small village such as this it was difficult to make them believe everything was alright. I had to keep them from entering the ether ways. I had to make them believe it was being upkept. I had to keep them fooled until the disease began to set in. In the end I needed to drug them. Only for a short time. Only enough time for them to lose the ability to move after warning signs began. By that time, I wouldn’t be able to keep it up anyway since it would be the same for me. No one would know. No one would be able to send help.

  It was close. It was so close. The shadow it cast blocked the noon day sun. The unpleasant warmth I had felt against what skin could still sense it was replaced with a sharp chill. Could a shadow really change so much. Did the chill really come from the air. If only I could turn my head. To see it fully. Not in my periphery. To see that it was walking not towards me but at an angle. That it had already passed me. That it had somehow overlooked one body among the many. That I could see another nodding their rigid head. That it could be out of my hands.

  I had spent my life studying that filth. I would say without boasting that no one in this world knows more about it than myself. As any man of science would, I came to conclusions. In time those conclusions formed beliefs, and those beliefs became convictions. In this small village on the other side of the boarder, they held strong religious beliefs. Old beliefs. They wouldn’t have just anyone desecrating the holy land of the ether way. It could only be a maiden. A maiden pure of mind just like in ages past. So, I brought them a maiden as theirs had passed. And what a maiden it was. A maiden of the brothel and one in my pocket. I made sure to find only the most tainted debauched subject and I had her spread her filth under their noses. And it spread. It spread until the disease came. For them and for me. So that I might know it. So, the filth would be in my own hand. First the dream, then the disease, and now the demon.

  And so, it was before me. And so, I would never again know peace. I have already made my decision. If only it could have been taken out of my hands. I knew how my head would shake. It almost seemed avian, but it had no feathers. Instead, it seemed to be adorned in ripped black cloth tinged in grey. Or was that its body. The legs were gangly. The legs were twisted. How did it stand upon them? Did the arms form? Or did the shadows twist? If it proffered a hand would it be a gnarled claw or hands smoother than anything could be? It was like a scarecrow. A scarecrow that walked. But it never walked it only stood. But didn’t it shuffle? Didn’t it slither?

  It would not take my soul. In fact, at least according to theologians, there was no more certain way to escape the pit of nightmares than to make a deal with these. What it would ask of you would pay all debts. No matter what you might of done in life, its favor would be accepted as sufficient punishment. But even then, no one would take it. No sane man. They would choose the pit. Then what did that make me? Me who had welcomed its approach with a great feast. Me who had his answer prepared.

  That head. That head! What was it! Did it have a beak as a crow? Did eyes or shadows pool? Was it straw? Featureless straw? Was there a squiggle? A mouth? Did it squiggle and weave? What was it! My neck cracked. My eyes were in their own. Had I turned? Did it pull me? It whispered. It croaked. It screeched. Its question was heard. Its terrible question.

  “Do you want to live?”

  The bone of my neck creaked and broke as, with the last of my strength, I raised it then lowered it.