What stood before me was no longer a man I knew, no longer an archaeologist a, colleague, a friend. He was more, and at the same time, much less.
He opened his arms to the vastness of the chamber and looked back at me. Behind him something writhed in the darkness, something gargantuan and impossible.
I had not been able to move until now, and I did. I turned and ran, ran through the Anatolian archway that housed a three story door, past great columns carved into fantastic patterns and towards that small hole I had originally crawled in through. I dived in to it, clothes and skin tearing alike and I clawed my way towards the outside. I could not progress; I knew I had to pass through it backwards so my shoulders could fit. My heart was beating rapidly and my eyes blurred and stinging from sweat or maybe blood, my feet led the way through the two meter tunnel.
But I was forced to look into the darkness, my eyes straining, making out shapes and figures, with my torch off and my body sealing the only entrance for light it was black. My nails were ragged, my fingers bloody and my muscles aching, I realised I was crying. I was stuck again. Then from the distance I heard running, the clacking of nail on the floor as something came charging out of the blackness towards me.
I closed my eyes and felt close breathing upon my face. The visage of what Langstom had become was burning in my mind.
And then it said it.
In a scream or a shrill call, it called my name.
I opened my eyes.
I left the
Black Sea as soon as I could; saying nothing of my discovery and
bringing nothing back.
That last part is a lie. Something followed me. That is why I am writing this.
Here I am at my estate: it is 3 am. I do not know if I am sane anymore.
There is a figure I recognise at the end of my garden, I am going out to meet it.