The Blight thrives in darkness and is now master of the night. It has only been eight days since this force descended upon us, nobody knows from where, and now we are forced to barricade ourselves inside at night.
Direct contact with this abomination means certain death. Falling asleep between dusk and dawn results in the merging with the Thing’s consciousness. At least that’s our best guess. The sleeping victim slowly collapses into a disgusting husk all the while raving as though possessed, at times quite violent. Other times not. More mysteries as to this monster’s intentions.
I am more committed than ever to writing this down because the powerful maelstrom in the center of The Blight has managed to cease most mass communications, another indication its origin is alien since our satellites are dead as well. Our family has a generator and thus far that has worked. I must write this down for there can now be no official recorded media effectively disseminated regarding this beast.
If I do not survive, perhaps this document can. Ah, sunrise. Time to sleep.
Rough night. For several hours, there has been pounding on all the doors and metal shutters we have installed behind the broken windows. Every night, The Blight passes by, screeching like a herd of demonic elephants as the storm it travels with shakes the house violently. These sounds we are used to. Far more disturbing is this incessant pounding, for we know its origin must be human. Others trying to get in. We hear them screaming, kicking and slamming their bodies against our home. Begging us to let them in. We cannot help them. If we open the door, we all die.
There are now only four of us left. Tommy fell asleep last night and merged with The Blight. He tried to kill me. Bit a chuck out of my arm like some ravenous zombie.
We buried his husk in the backyard next to Dad.
When we go into town to loot what we can from the dwindling supplies of the abandoned stores, we encounter more corpses than we do other people.
For all practical purposes, The Blight is already victorious. Not sure what it wants exactly, but there seems to be no resistance we can offer.
Dawn is breaking and we have survived again, though only ten days into this season in Hell we don’t know why we bother.
A night of the infernal pounding again. Jack went crazy and almost opened the door. We had to tie him down and he fell asleep from exhaustion despite our efforts to keep him awake. Two of us gone in two days. Now we are three. My heart sinks as I write this. I feel like a monster for wanting to survive. My uncle and cousin gone and I am worrying about what Mom, Sis and I are going to eat today.
Another thing that bothers me. If there is hardly anyone left when we wander about by day, where do all these people come from, beating on our house to get in here at night?
Now the constant thumping is a nightly occurrence but still only comes when The Blight is passing by. Still a mystery.
We find our conscience aching for these victims in the night but our strong survival instinct leaves us pinned to the chair. For we know beyond the door is certain doom.
When will this creature be finished with us? Is its only ambition our total annihilation?
The mystery of the pounding is now solved and with that discovery I am now the lone inhabitant of this dwelling.
Last night, the cacophony of the relentless attack reached unbearable proportions and Sis did the unthinkable. Mom and I had our eyes closed and heads buried in pillows, as was our habit to drown out the cursed creature and the pleading victims. I opened my eyes and saw Sis at the door as she made the insane decision to open it.
Within the maelstrom on the other side of the door, we witnessed the true horror of The Blight’s grotesque construction. The constant battering of the house was indeed produced by human hands and feet but—
I struggle to write this—
You will only deem me insane anyway and discount this record entirely if you find it long after The Blight is gone—
There were no complete human bodies within The Blight, only many severed parts from its victims—hands, legs, organs, swirling around within the whirlwind. So nobody was outside the house all these nights, The Blight itself used these body parts to deceive us.
And it worked, for there we were before the open door. I was a few steps behind Sis and Mom when they were hurled into this ghastly amalgam of human and creature. It was over in seconds. They were like debris sucked into a vacuum cleaner and then torn apart and fed to the collective.
Somehow I made it into the basement and survived until dawn.
The house is a wasteland. I don’t know what to do next. Perhaps it is time to simply wander outside and take my chances. It is now only a few hours until nightfall. I have not slept all day. It won’t take long anyway for The Blight to destroy the basement door.
Maybe the best thing to do is just sit here and see what happens. I must fight the instinct to survive but it is so strong.
© George Wilhite
George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous anthologies and online at House of Horror, MicroHorrorand The Fringe. Follow George at www.authorsden.com/georgewilhite
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George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous anthologies and online at House of Horror, MicroHorrorand The Fringe.