What Hell May Come
They ran about in knee pants, holding up a mason jar filled with something inky black and putrid.
Jon couldn’t stand anymore. For the worst was to come, he knew. A primeval warning, dredged up from a thousand fear-filled past lives, told him not to look. To hold on. To do whatever it took to keep those lids open. Terror lurked about, absolute alien malevolence, that meant to steal his soul, absorb his being, feast on his karmic effluence. Formless, caught on the eddies of time, inscribed in antediluvian rock, the evil was there. And it could not be bested.
Bab Populer