We summoned the thing without knowing what we’d done.
A simple campfire—roasting marshmallows for nostalgia’s sake.
“Grab the sticks,” you said.
I did.
They burned, smoked green.
The earth rumbled, shook without moving.
The thing rose behind you—a menacing, monolithic shadow amongst forest shadows. Its innumerable yellow eyes fixed on me, its rusted voice impregnated my thoughts with inarticulate words. Root-like appendages rose into the air as if in depraved prayer, and my own hands mimicked its movements.
Know I had no choice, its putrid need filling my throat as I thrust the hunting knife into your heart.