Eldritch Terrors Mythology Novels & Stories

**KELLY THOMPSON'S POV** The quiet was a liar. Three days after Rhydian tore the First Pack's essence from his chest, the nightmares began. Not mine-*theirs*. Every wolf in the territory woke screaming, their minds invaded by visions of a starless sky and a voice that wasn't a voice, but a *pressure*, like the deep-sea weight of something ancient surfacing. Isolde called it *the Hollowing*. "It's not the Dusk Mother," she said, her fingers trembling as she sketched the new sigils scorched into Eden's doorframe. "This is older. *Hungrier.*"

Seraphine looked equally horrified because they understood before the rest of us. "What is it?" Ragnar demanded. Neither answered immediately. Finally, Seraphine spoke. Her voice barely above a whisper. "The old stories..." Eldric nodded. Still staring. "The ones we thought were myths." A cold knot formed in my chest. "What stories?" The warlock looked at me. And for the first time since I'd met him...I saw genuine fear. "The stories that claimed the Hollow Arc wasn't created. It was discovered." Nobody spoke. Because somehow...That possibility was infinitely worse. Far ahead, the impossible structure shifted again. And from somewhere deep within it...A single voice echoed across the clearin

After there was nothing more to eat, those flesh-eating parasites crawled out of their body in thousands and into the cauldron filled to the brim with his blood. The remains of the mother and daughter duo looked nothing like how they were when first brought in; they looked sucked out, like a ghoul. Then he faced the cauldron and began chanting again. “Gor’thal ven kai’roth… Ishtar dovaen sul’karai… Moraak ven’esh deruvi… Kai’ther val morah… Ustur ven draakul… TAL’VORAN… TAL’VORAN…

He stands there in his shirt-sleeves, his chest heaving, his face contorted with a strange mix of hunger and deep-seated fear. And then I see three creatures so terrifying that I nearly fall to the ground in shock. They are tall, their bodies draped in tattered silks that move as if underwater. Their faces are masks of polished porcelain, devoid of eyes or mouths. “Who are they?” “The dark mistresses of the Seculum.” Myra responds. “The one on the right is the Mother of Shadows, the middle is the Mother of Sin and the left is the Mother of Suffering.”

“They say he doesn’t sleep. They say you can hear his veins pulsing from across the room.” “The Corpse God,” another had whispered back. “He eats Lycans to keep the rot at bay. He cracks them open like walnuts.” I had dismissed them as Dregs superstition. Myths created to make the boogeyman scarier. But now. Strapped to this cold obsidian chair. The silence pressing against my eardrums like water pressure. Those whispers felt terrifyingly real. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs—thud, thud, thud—painful. Erratic.

Be it to the north, south, east, or west, there was no place hidden from this stench of blood. True Eyes could faintly make out the bodies of several creatures down below. There were those shaped like humans, and those whose figure were aberrant forms of nature. There were beings Mane had only read about in books and those he had never even seen illustrations of. Monsters, humans, devils, giants, dwarves, and gods fought down below. Each warrior was mighty and powerful. Some were heroes from their worlds; others were villains who had been expelled from their planets; and some still were sages who had been forced to pick up the sword. There were many corpses on the ground, and even with eyes

She took this time to skim through all the pages between the first passage regarding the rhododendron bushes and the bone-chilling page 47, hoping to find something more about this place which the writer spoke of so malevolently. She came across many different topics such as the history of the mysterious Seluitah tribe, the hierarchy of the Spirits, various passages concerning potions and healing draughts, and something about the gates to a place called Valhalla. Lyda paused for a moment when she came across a strange drawing on one page that looked like a snake winding around in a circle to clutch its tail in its mouth, above which was a barely-legible word that she could only pronounce as,

S-tier Malevolent Phantoms are terrifying. In response, Felix's mouth curled into a smile. "Yes, S-tier Malevolent Phantoms are indeed terrifying. But you also don't understand how terrifying those people were back in the Bronze Age."

Elena introduced the topic with confidence, her voice steady as she explained the common themes in shifter mythology across different cultures. “In Norse mythology,” she said, gesturing to an image on the screen behind her, “we see the concept of the berserker - warriors who would take on the spirit of the wolf or bear, channeling their ferocity in battle. The term itself comes from Old Norse, meaning ‘bear-shirt,’ referring to their animalistic transformation.” She moved through her slides, discussing Native American legends of skinwalkers, Celtic tales of selkies, and the enduring symbolism of wolves in folklore. The students were engaged, asking thoughtful questions and jotting down notes

Lyra POV The conversation had left something heavy hanging in the air. The Forgotten God. The Impossible Child. Ancient horrors imprisoned beyond reality. It was enough to make even immortals tired. Ekreth drained the last of his wine and set the cup aside. The faint sound echoed through the chamber. “I think we’ve frightened ourselves sufficiently for one night.” Nyxar snorted. Lyra rolled her eyes. The dragon’s mouth twitched. Then his expression softened. Unexpectedly.