Mass had concluded not an hour earlier, and though I do so love the others in my village, I also cherish my time alone. Warmed by the words of the sermon and draped in a cloak adorned with the holy symbol of JohnCarver, I confess that I felt quite immune to the dangers of the wilderness as I made my way home.
The particular path I chose that day was somewhat out of the way, and while I am not so bold as to claim that it is known only to myself, of the many times I have traveled it I’ve never encountered another soul. That is to say, not until that evening.
I was alerted to his presence not by the cracking of branches or rustling of leaves as one might be to a wild animal or hidden briggand, but by the soft humming of a tune carried to me by a rogue breeze. It was familiar and yet alien, the queerness of it beckoning me closer until I spied its source.
The first thing that caught my eye, and truly the most defining feature of this figure, was that he was dressed in the most outrageous yellow robes. A parting in the undergrowth illuminated him under the soft caress of moonlight, a gentle wind causing the robe to billow this way and that, not unlike a most captivating flame. My approach must have been less than silent (I’d never make it as a burglar), for the man turned to regard me. His face was concealed by a mask of exquisite make: clearly designed to prevent the spread of plague, but one couldn’t help but marvel at the workmanship of its design and hawk like regality of its curved features.
He greeted me, and I was taken aback by the musical ring of his voice. My tension must have been apparent, for he quickly assured me that he meant no harm and that he’d merely become lost walking home from the service. It didn’t occur to me then that I surely would have noticed a figure such as himself at the chapel, but perhaps I had merely been so absorbed by the word of the Lord that I missed the masked man in canary yellow robes, though the thought does bring me some embarrassment.
We spoke for a short time about the sermon, until a bitter chill set in and we began to find it difficult to converse amid the chattering of our teeth. At that time it had become quite late, and not one to leave a man of the faith out in the cold (no matter his sense of fashion!) I offered to let him stay with me for the evening, and that we might return to Providence in the morning. His cheerful acceptance made me quite pleased at the time, though looking back on it I have to wonder if he didn’t agree too quickly. Perhaps I should have felt more ill at ease, but as I’ve mentioned wrapped in the love of JohnCarver as I was, I was feeling quite untouchable at that time.
We hastened to my homestead, where I lit a fire in the hearth and offered him what food I had but he turned me down, saying that my hospitality was more than enough and if he abused it any further he couldn’t begin to live with himself. We spoke late into the night, and it was only when I couldn’t keep up my end of the conversation any longer that he insisted I turn in. As any host would I offered him my bed, but he insisted on sleeping on a pile of dried furs I am embarrassed to say makes up my guest bed (I don’t entertain much), and that for all my generosity he had to make it up to me somehow. I didn’t have the strength to argue, so off to bed I went.
My dreams were troubled that night: plagued by startling images of the man in yellow robes. I awoke in a cold sweat, only to realize that I couldn’t move. An affliction of my childhood which my parents once referred to as “old hag”, it usually lasted mere minutes, but this night I found myself trapped within my own skin for nearly an hour, until I noticed a figure standing at the edge of my vision. Though much of my sight was obscured by the dark, his canary yellow robes were unmistakable, and as if feeling my gaze upon him he began to approach.
The gloom swirled about him like a blackened miasma, and with each step the feeling of dread that has began building in my gut some time ago threatened to overwhelm me. It wasn’t until he was but a few feet away that I realized he was without his mask.
Deep pock marks scarred his face, and his leathery gray flesh was marred with a myriad of oozing sores, but despite his dreadful appearance it was his beady eyes that held my attention, for in their center where one would expect to see the pupil was a horrible three pronged rune, two of its appendages curling into what looked like twisted tentacles, all connected at its center with a bulbous knot, the symbol itself the same awful yellow as his robes.
When the man reached my bedside, he extended his hand and placed it upon my left eye, and as I struggled to scream he asked me the most horrible question.
I know not when I lost consciousness, but I awoke to the sun beaming in through my window and a horrible burning sensation and lack of vision in the eye touched by the man. This did not stop me from leaping from my bed and running to confront my guest, stopping only to arm myself, but when I arrived I found not the man, but a bundle of yellow fabric accompanied by a note.
The note read that he had to leave early for a meeting in the capital, and that he was quite saddened that he would miss me that morning, and to make it up he had left a gift. Perhaps it was against my better judgement, but I decided to unwrap the yellow parcel and see what my guest had left me.
It was a leather bound tome, unremarkable save for the cursed rune engraved into its cover. I confess to throwing it across the room and putting as much distance between myself and that damned book as possible, for visions of my terror the night before still haunted my every thought.
Since that morning I’ve had more time to gather my thoughts. The burning in my eye has not ceased, but I have since recovered somewhat from the blindness. Looking through it, everything is immersed in a yellow fog and twisted in a most horrible way. I’ve taken to wearing a patch over it, though I confess this is less about the problems with my vision and more out of fear that I should catch my reflection in a basin and see that it too has been scarred with that damnable rune.
As for the book, my inner scholar has pressed me to investigate it, though to my dismay it appears to be empty. A dark thought has picked at the back of my mind, and I am beginning to wonder whether it might become legible once viewed from my other (and I’m beginning to think cursed) eye, though I am far too fearful to test this theory for myself.
As my tale comes to an end, I must urge each of you to be cautious, Love thy neighbor, but do not be enchanted by him. Darkness lurks outside the light of Providence, and should you let your guard down for even a moment you might be swallowed up by it. In closing, I leave you with an image of the cursed rune so that you might recognize it should it find its way into your life (though I pray it does not), and ask you the question my most damned guest asked of me.
