Chapter Text
You can feel it. Under the bed. Nothing tells you it's there other than a feeling, a queasy, flitty feeling, like butterflies desperately trying to escape the acidic chamber of death that is your stomach. You never see anything, or hear anything, it isn’t the kind of paranoia that makes monsters out of random natural phenomena. No, nothing indicates that there is a monster under the bed, and that is precisely why you are certain there is one.
You are not sure quite when it started. The feeling. It has been at full force for almost a week now, at least. But it built, slowly. Maybe you were just anxious one night. Or maybe a monster really is there, lurking. Growing.
At first you would check under the bed when you felt it, but no, it was too dark to see anything down there. You would have waved your hand down there but you were too afraid. You turned on the light and checked again. By the time you went to check you could already feel that it was gone. You aren’t sure how it could have scuttled away, or where to, but just as you thought, under the bed was empty.
You don’t bother to check anymore. You know it is there. It does not want to be seen. That is enough.
Perhaps tonight you are simply fed up with how this has been affecting your sleep. Perhaps you are struck by a wayward mote of bravery. Perhaps you simply wish the waiting would stop and want to face your end. Whatever it is, after a long process of ordering words, imagining sounds, you speak.
I know you’re under there.
You hold your breath in anticipation. A terribly cliche dog girl barks in the distance. You would almost laugh if your heart wasn’t racing so.
The monster doesn’t answer. Maybe it can’t speak, but you said something you already both knew, maybe it simply didn’t feel the need to. It takes a minute, but you try again. Maybe something a friend said once?
Could you at least tell me why my bed? Surely there are better and more private places to rest. If my house is that nice, could I interest you in the guest bedroom?
The phrase wasn’t originally said in quite the same context, but it works, and it is a light-hearted joke. That makes things a little easier. The ease vanishes almost in the same moment it arrives, as your ears are assaulted by a deep, rumbling sound, all around you, yet easily identifiable as coming from under you. For a moment you think it is an earthquake, the ground itself shaking. Then you realize it’s the monster. Is it growling, perhaps poising to attack you? … No. It is laughing.
It is a deeply terrifying laugh, befitting of a monster, but it also is in response to one of most terrible half-assed attempts at a joke of all time. You are not sure what to make of it.
I k n e w y o u w o u l d b e i n t e r e s t i n g .
Eldritch. That is the only word that can describe the voice. Old, patient, inconceivable. The thought crosses your mind. Perhaps the monster never letting itself be seen was not for its sake, but yours.
And I knew you were real.
You were not sure what else to say, but you had to say something. You’ve always found it easier to mirror what other people say, anyway. Not that other people are any better at speaking. Other people is where you got that horrible non-joke, after all.
Another earthquake as the monster… chuckles.
O f c o u r s e I a m r e a l . I h a v e b e e n l e t t i n g y o u f e e l m e e v e r y n i g h t , h a v e I n o t ?
So it was intentional? But why? Is this monster really just here to ruin your sleep and that’s it? You think that even if it stayed now, and did nothing, just like it did before, you could almost forget about it, eventually. It has spoken, and while its voice is eldritch and unknowable, it has also shown itself to be… personable. It would certainly be creepy, but you could sleep knowing something personable was under your bed.
Of course you have.
You eventually parrot something back. It isn’t what you’re really thinking about, but it’s easier. Maybe with loosened lips the monster will divulge its reasoning unprompted.
You hear something. It is not a gravelly laugh, nor a spoken word. You are not sure what it is. It is a low, sustained, bending tone. What does that mean? You forget all about it when for a moment you swear you see the darkness all around you move.
Y o u h a v e p u t u p w i t h m e f o r q u i t e a l o n g t i m e . I w o u l d i m a g i n e m y p r e s e n c e i s f a m i l i a r b y n o w .
No such luck. It isn’t wrong per se. It is anxiety, and fear, but recognizable anxiety and fear. In that way you suppose it is better than new and mysterious anxiety and fear. The monster is fear you know, it is a monster under your bed. It is exactly what you think it is.
Your presence is familiar.
Something changes in the feeling. Now that you notice it, you are sure it has already changed, but this shift is much more dramatic. The pressing dread is suddenly gone, replaced with… relief. You can feel that the monster is pleased. And for some reason that makes you happy.
T h e n y o u n e e d n o t f e a r m e a n y l o n g e r .
It is controlling your emotions, somehow, you realize. Or affecting them, at least. So it is not the simple monster of fang and claw you grew up fearing. It is the far worse kind. Still, fear will not enter your body. You are fully calm, relaxed even. Perhaps it is for the best, fear clouds decision making.
…
You realize the monster is waiting for you to speak. It did not provide you with a good template. After ordering your thoughts, you find something appropriate to say. It is a struggle, but you force the words out.
Why? Why here?
There. Now maybe it will answer your questions. A low rumble, as if it is clearing its throat, draws your attention back to the monster.
B e c a u s e I k n o w y o u l i k e m o n s t e r s .
You shudder, not in fear because fear is unreachable, but in… something. Sure, you like monsters in theory, monster movies, horror stories, even playing a good old fashioned creature in a roleplaying game, but in reality? Under your bed? You suppose you took it better than most would.
You feel as though you are supposed to respond but are at a loss for words. None of theirs seem helpful, but you can not seem to formulate any of your own. The monster seems to notice.
H o w c o u l d I b e s o f o r g e t f u l ? A l l o w m e t o t e l l y o u y o u r l i n e s .
Your lines? Is it going to provide you with words? You feel… grateful. Somehow it knows what you need, and in this moment, that is immensely comforting. You are not sure if that feeling is your own, or if it has been placed there.
S a y ‘ T h a n k Y o u . ’
You are not sure how you feel about being told precisely what to say, rather than being given words to mirror as your own, but it is still much, much easier than making them yourself. You are also not sure if you are thankful. But the conversation must continue somehow.
Thank you.
You can feel that the monster is pleased.
G o o d .
The feeling infects you, drawing a smile to your lips unbidden.
Y o u a r e p e r f e c t . Y o u h a v e a l l o f t h e c o r r e c t p r e d i s p o s i t i o n s . A n d y o u a r e s o w i l l i n g l y p r e p a r e d t o b e
f i l l e d . Y o u w i l l m a k e a w o n d e r f u l a c o l y t e .
That… does not sound good.
S a y ‘ Y e s M i s t r e s s . ’
…
What.
Were you-? Is this-? What?? You feel a pressure, the aura of the monster, pushing the words towards your lips. But… what?
I- I don’t-
You are unable to finish. You cannot find the words on your own. And the monster does not seem pleased with your response.
A c o l y t e . . .
If the ground shaking eldritch rumble from before had been playful, this is firm, unyielding, a quake as authoritative and certain as the passage of time.
T h o s e a r e n o t t h e w o r d s I g a v e y o u .
Suddenly, a tendril of pure darkness is caressing your cheek. You cannot see it, only feel it, a piece of the monster touching you.
S a y i t .
At the firm command, along with the gentle touch, you feel something begin to spread within you. Loyalty, a fanatical devotion to the creature around you. You know it is not yours. You know you are going mad. You have been for months. You can do nothing to stop it. The eldritch ones may choose whichever followers they wish, there can be no resistance against a god.
Yes Mistress.
You hear it in your own voice already, eager as it was. You have been lost.
V e r y g o o d .
You are happy you have pleased your Mistress. You are too far gone to fight the feelings, unsure whether they have been given to you or are your own. You are unsure if it matters.
Y o u a r e v e r y c u t e , f o r a n a c o l y t e .
You feel proud. You are cute. You are pleasing your Mistress.
I w i l l g i v e y o u w o r d s n o w . I e x p e c t y o u t o n o t f o r g e t t h e m , a n d t o u s e t h e m o f t e n . D o y o u u n d e r s t a n d ?
You nod. It is pitch black but you know your Mistress can see you.
G o o d . S a y ‘ Y e s M i s t r e s s , T h a n k Y o u M i s t r e s s . ’
Yes Mistress, Thank You Mistress.
V e r y , v e r y g o o d .
You feel your Mistress begin to stroke your hair. It feels nice. For your worship, you are cared for. You are lifted from your bed, the darkness itself scooping you up, and once it seems almost as though you are floating, 6 glowing red eyes appear, all looking right at you. You are not afraid, you are an extension of the monster, the thing that goes bump in the night, your Mistress. The eyes seem to raise and you can sense that your Mistress has opened her massive, monstrous maw.
Then, you are devoured.