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The home of the lost ones was much like bats in a cave; the sound of the silence was ravenous, and it refused to leave alone. The rocks dripped their putrid oil- or was it holy? The ink was what made them, and many didn’t know if such a thing is a blessing or a curse.
As the drips plinked to the puddles- the liquid where their corpses found their decay and rebirth- the vibration like a bead of rain falling into the ocean could be heard all across the way. Beyond the docks, through the weaving rivers, in the way of leviathan with white fingers and a taste for blood. To stand with misshapen toes at the edge of their home was to stand at the edge of eternity. And it was so much yet so very, very little.
No wonder so many doubted their savior.
The inky person contemplating all this felt a gasp, rough against their throat with no true mouth to release their voice. Glowing gold eyes drooping with weariness looked up, and the visage of their redeemer met them. Of course, it was just the mask made in his image, but the person behind it was the reminder that such a face mattered so very, very much.
“Come now-” As the prophet leaned in, it was almost like he could read minds- Could he-? No, no. Just very good…very practiced at recognizing the plight of the demon’s pilgrims. “Unless you seek for the purpose our lord has for you in the glitter across the waters, it’s time to go.”
With ink running down their arms, the lost one fiddled their hands anxiously. That…was what they were doing…but not quite like that. More hopeless. Perhaps the guilt was spotted too, because the man once Sammy gave a grunt and a nod, gesturing for the lost one to move first.
They eventually did, slowly trekking away from the shore. The prophet stood there, just a second, with the tides that always teased a release from corporeality before he walked forward, too, instead of back.
The creaking of the wood was loud, but their faith was strong, and so the floor that carried all these homes never broke under their feet.
Words written with their own black blood were scrawled on the walls as they approached the center of the rickety village; handprints- all over.
“Not Monsters”
A crowd waited there- or the biggest a crowd you can get outside the wailing puddles. They waited, murmuring among themselves, turning their heads and quieting while making way once they saw their prophet coming. The one he brought back with him joined the crowd too towards the front rows, and the one like them with the voice of God took his place before shifting to face them.
“It has come to my…attention,” the prophet began, making sure to turn his head so all felt addressed, “That we are again feeling a crisis of- dare I say- faith.”
The murmuring began again, harsher even if it was quieter than before. “I told you he would notice-“ “What is he going to say-” “What can be said?! What can we do?!”
All that the prophet had to do was raise his hands and wait, and the congregation’s words simmered into nothing once more.
“Now…I want it to be clear, as I have always preached, that I am not mad. The demon…he is not angered by this.” The mask of the demon smiled hollowly upon everyone. “But it is still not right,” Sammy said so softly it might have well been a hiss.
He took a step forward, again ensuring that everyone got a good, hard look at the pie cut eyes that always watched them.
“It is…our nature to doubt. Human nature! We- were all- human!” The audience watched in awe as the prophet raised his arms to the heavens-…the sky always blocked by the cave ceiling that dripped onyx into their ocean. The man stared for a bit before his arms lowered and then a few seconds after his gaze.
“We…still have humanity inside of us,” he muttered sharply. Even without a face, one could almost see him squinting with utmost scrutiny. He saw into her hearts like he wielded a knife to cut his way there. “That…is our blessing and curse. To live! That is…our journey. And in times like this! We must all remember that this is the plight the demon asks of us.”
Melting faces glanced at each other, murmurs of agreement and shrugs pushing off doubt shifting the masses. The sight of it- as it did any other day- made Sammy sigh.
“Sweet, lost sheep,” he lamented, and the lost one he brought from the brink of the puddles gasped once more as fingers came to caress underneath his chin. The gaze of that mask- so close- all knowing- kind- merciful-
“We have no need to think of plummeting to the puddles,” he whispered, the glow of the one’s eyes gently splashing onto his mask and the flesh barely seen underneath. “We will never have to go back there again. We will wait. We will thrive-!”
The prophet’s shoulder’s rolled back, making sure he stood tall as he looked out across the congregation again.
“We will be set FREE!!!”
And like his voice, the crowd might as well have roared, perhaps not loud but their relief bright and echoing its renewal through the cave like a candle relit in the dark. Revitalized, they had strength to go another day-
“Why?”
Sammy turned once again, the cheers dying down as he gazed upon the one whose face he still held in his hand.
And the eyes looking upon him were still so very afraid.
“Why would…he want us to suffer?”
Sammy let him go, folding his arms. This question was not unfamiliar, of course.
“As we’ve discussed,” he answered patiently, aware all other eyes came back to them too, “Suffering paves the way for what we’ve earned-“
“But!” The interruption nearly made Sammy flinch. “But- we didn’t earn this.”
Those eyes…they were pleading.
“I-” The lost one broke his gaze, facing the floor in embarrassment at his outburst. They felt so small- so small among the crowd that found their faith again. “I’m sorry-!”
A third, final gasp as two hands came to hold his shoulders.
“…Don’t be,” Sammy whispered, for every shepherd hailed most the lost sheep he could bring back home, “The demon forgives those who doubt. All in good time.”
And he let go, taking a step back, separating himself further from those that watched- ensuring that the one who stuck out was now just part of the crowd once more.
“I received a vision,” he said loud enough for all to hear, “…The demon will come. He wants to…assure us of what we’ve done.”
“Will you be leaving us again?” A different being spoke up again in interruption, a higher pitched voice with their hands held tight near their heart. “To…commune with the demon?”
Sammy paused before nodding. His leaving was regular, but something else was not.
“Yes. Before he comes to see you.”
And now- genuine, genuine surprise. This…this wasn’t heard of. This…this didn’t happen-
“Quiet,” Sammy firmly asked of his people. And it took a moment, but so they did, still as death. “…He has seen- finally seen- our pleas! …He knows our hurt.” A gesture to the one from the shore. “And so, he is coming to our humble home.”
Murmuring, anxious mumbling among them again, but Sammy didn’t have time to quiet them.
“Prepare while I am gone. Make yourselves ready, and pray.”
Another step back towards the exit behind him, one last fatherly look at everyone in a moment of quiet.
“…Pray,” he repeated, “For he will set us free.”
And with that, the lost one that thought to throw themself into the lake was the first to see him go, hearing the rattles of the people about him and feeling for the first time in a long time- hope.
The last they saw was Sammy slink into the shadows beyond the door, an arm raised to graze its fingertips against the ridged, wooden walls. No one ever followed him when he communed, as tempting as it was, and no one was to now.
This was a rule for a very, very good reason.
The ink trailed behind his hand, blacker in the dark.
Step. Step. Step.
The light of a crack within the ceiling flashed over his knuckles, and in the dark they suddenly seemed whiter.
Another. Now it was bigger.
Facing his back, the neck attaching his head to his spine was thin. A spot of light. Thinner.
The ridges of his back were bumpy. Another flash in the dark. Sharper, like blades.
His other hand dangled by his thigh. Four fingers. Flash. Claws.
Turn around, see his front. Legs in baggy pants that never fit an ever-changing body. Now one would see hobbled, strained and murky flesh that glittered in the dark.
Suspenders- now just a paper yellow, delipidated bow dangled over ribs.
And that mask.
No, Sammy never took his mask off.
The painted eyes scratched over were much the same in this form, the ink of horns dripping down his face, past that eternal, lying smile.
Dreams come true, and so he was the beast he worshiped.