The Hole
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Blood drips from bare walls of coarse stone
Blood drips from beneath my avulsed fingernails as I mark
My forty-first day alone
Alone in this hole
Through stuporous hours, engulfed in silence and sickly fluorescence
Bolt upright I sit and wordlessly stare
Stare into the cracks and the crevices
Awaiting the whispers' return
They were timid at first
Vague shapes embedded in masonry
Hints of eyes, fangs and tentacles
Motion perceived where none could have been
Ephemeral to sight but not memory
As the days passed the details coalesced into forms,
Vivid and tenebrous
Otherworldly and monstrous
Next came the whispers
Ghostly voices, vibrating amidst the hum
At the edge of the audible spectrum
In eldritch, unknowable tongues, yet I understood
Imprisoned just outside the sphere of our world
As alone and hungry as I
They pled for emancipation
For release into the realm that they once called their own
They call out for offerings
Of blood and of semen, of skin and of hair
Deepening my obligation
With each successive act of self-mutilation
Their voices grow louder and louder
A harrowing unison of undefinable phonemes extolling the deed
They show me their sigil
A baffling scrawl of concentric shapes
I trace it in blood on the floor
Reeling from the euphoria of exsanguination
Their shrieks are unceasing
But still they will not emerge from their prison
The minutes crawl by and the voices grow faint
Until eventually they disappear
Replaced by a silence that's broken only by my own weakening breath
Collapsed in the corner I stare at the cracks and the crevices
But they do not return for me
My vision fades
I am betrayed and alone
Dying here in this hole