I am writing this in order to clear my name of wrongdoing. The police requested that I stay quiet, but I cannot stay my tongue on those awful events any further. The whispers and accusations behind my back have become unbearable, as have the nightmares resulting from my experiences. It is my hope that writing them out, putting pen to paper, will somehow alleviate them, and keep the night terrors at bay. At the very least, they might allow me to share my misery with others. What I am about to recount will sound unbelievable to most – indeed, those who have either not read that dreadful book, or who were not familiar with Michael Riley before his death will no doubt dismiss these writings as a weak attempt at an excuse at best, and the ravings of an absolute lunatic at worst. However, while it is true that I killed my best friend, I did so with nothing but good intentions, for the sake of saving the man he had once been from what he had then become. And if you, reader, are willing to open your mind to the truths contained within this document, then I can assure you that you will not only agree with me, but lament the fact that I wasn't thorough enough.
In the summer of 2013, I was invited to Michael's home for the first time. The two of us had conversed through mail for a long time before this, having first made contact over a disagreement sparked by a newspaper editorial. However, despite our differing views which we never did manage to reconcile completely, we had made fast friends. I had a fascination with the occult, and on many occasions found myself disappointed that the fanciful tales of aliens and cryptids found within many an entertaining book were nothing more than lies, conjured up by some need for attention. Michael, however, informed me that he had something which might help alleviate my sadness, and that he could only show me in person. I, of course, accepted his invitation, and met with him in early July. The trip to Ireland was one I had not done before, but I was wholly determined to meet up with my friend, and figure out what he had for me.
His house was found just outside of Cork. The city itself seemed like it had been beautiful once, but had since fallen into disrepair, with empty, graffiti-covered buildings not an uncommon sight, which made me somewhat wistful for a time where this city could once again be returned to its full glory. Of course, I thought to myself, that was all a matter of time, and careful management. The countryside, however, was undeniably beautiful. Green, rolling meadows, grassy hills, and small stone walls dotted the landscape, along with old ruins and cottages. I saw sheep and horses filling up the field, a rarity where I was from – though the more personally familiar cows could also be found grazing.
When I reached the house, I was both amazed and saddened. It was a large, old building, impressive in its stature and in the care someone had clearly put into its architecture, composed of beautiful red bricks. And yet, it was clear that it had long since fallen into disrepair, with vines creeping up the walls, and clear signs of erosion. But still, it was, by all means, a very nice building to look at. I reckoned that it would have looked stunning in its prime, but even in this state, it was quite the thing to behold. Michael himself was not much better off than the house – it was clear that for both, their best years were behind them. He was a man with a certain distinguished air about him, one which was not diminished by his short stature, nor by his grey, tattered hair. His chin was clean shaven, and he wore a suit that seemed dusty, almost as if it had been hanging in a closet for a long time, and had only been brought out for this occasion. His face was that of a man weary with the world, though his eyes somehow seemed more alive than the rest of him, betraying a spark of curiosity that belied the rest of his appearance. Strangely, most of his skin beside his face was covered, with his hands being gloved, perhaps due to some skin disease.
Despite all this, Michael proved to be an excellent host. He was a more than adequate cook, and the house was much better kept on the inside than the outside would suggest. He told me about how his family used to be wealthy, used to have a number of servants to take care of the estate, but that times had changed after his grandfather died, and that the last of their money was long since gone. He himself was the only one living in the house now, and while he tried his best to take care of the living spaces, he did let me know that not all parts of the building were cleaned quite as often, as they simply were not in use any longer. After our introductions and initial small talk, however, the conversation soon turned to my reason for being here. The thing he wanted to show me. Or, as it turned out, things. For there were multiple objects and discoveries which he wished to share with me.
The first was a book, a leather-bound tome with an unassuming appearance, worn with age and use. A single word glowed in golden inscription on the front: Necronomicon. Michael told me that this copy had belonged to a preacher once, who had given it to his great-great-grandfather as a gift. It was said to have been found amongst the belongings of a Pagan cult after the police arrested most of them for unseemly activities of which he did not know the full details – only that they had been known for chanting and conducting rituals in the countryside while speaking in some strange tongue that was neither English, nor Irish, nor any sort of language native to the isles. I had heard of the book before this. It was a rare specimen, an English translation of the original Arabic text written by the mad Alhazred, and it was quite clear that it had been used in many rituals over the years, before it fell into the hands of that preacher, and eventually, those of the Riley family. There were bookmarks in it, and Michael excitedly told me that he had studied its yellowed pages, and how there were some truly fascinating things within it that he implored me to read over for myself.
I spent the day alternating between admiring the countryside with Michael as my guide, and studying the book with his occasional commentary on the contents. It was clear that he had spent a lot of time studying it, and he seemed to take a special interest in a name that showed up a few times throughout – Soath. It seemed of little consequence to the overall contents, and yet its every appearance had been marked by Michael, with him becoming ever so slightly animated each time we went through a section containing it. Only one of the sections really went into detail on what exactly the name referred to. It spoke of Soath, the changer of reality, some sort of god-figure. It spoke a little on his followers, an ancient race, and of the great black basalt structures that they erected under its guidance. The passage also mentioned a war that had left Soath imprisoned under the water, and forced its followers underground. Why exactly this was so exciting to my host, I am not sure, but he had a great amount of interest in it.
"Do you see? These things and their god, they managed to conquer reality somehow, to bend its laws to their whims," he excitedly elaborated. "They could control the composition of their own bodies, because they consisted of something that was beyond any Earthly substance. If we, if Mankind, could achieve that sort of power, why, we'd be able to travel through space unharmed, we'd be able to stop aging and famine altogether. We would be gods, don't you see?"
Michael did not at all seem deterred by my questioning of the underlying scientific theory to support this hypothesis. His excitement had reached a feverish pitch, as he continued to tell me about these reality-bending beings and their god. He seemed to have a lot of knowledge on them, certainly more than could be found inside the volume before me. I asked him how he could possibly know any of this. He let out a short, barking laugh.
"You think me raving mad. I suppose I can't blame you – these are fantastical claims that I keep making." He poured a cup of tea for himself, and put in a pinch of milk. "This estate has been in my family's care for many generations now – but I would be lying if I said that we are the true owners of it. The way I see it, we are merely its caretakers. That's what I wanted to show you. Come with me, and I will show you."
I pointed out that it was getting dark outside, but he countered by telling me that the need for light was merely another limitation of our human bodies, that "they" were unconcerned by such trivialities. He led me down into the cellar, down below the manor. The stairs here were clearly much older than the rest of the house, as were the walls – almost as if they were remnants of an earlier structure that had once stood where the manor did now. And yet, even though the original building was gone, the cellar remained, unchanged from however long ago it had been erected. As we descended, we entered a relatively large subterranean room – certainly larger than I would have expected the cellar to be. He brought a flashlight for each of us, and after some fumbling, I managed to look around the room.
It was largely empty, though it seemed like it had been used for storage previously – perhaps of wines, given how cool it was down there. Indeed, there seemed to be a draft coming from somewhere, though I dismissed it as being merely another consequence of the house's dilapidated state. Michael waved me over to one of the walls, where I saw that the entire wall was covered in some sort of mural. It depicted alien creatures embroiled in some sort of battle – floating, amorphous, polypous things battling large, cone-shaped things with odd appendages. Some of the polypous beings were being torn apart by the weapons of the cone-things, which seemed to vaporise them with light. Meanwhile, in other places, the polypous things were tearing apart adversaries, seemingly without touching them. The drawings seemed to indicate that it was the force of wind that was pulling these unfortunates apart, but how could wind alone be directed in such a destructive and localised manner? My questions were merely met with Michael's insistence that I keep following the murals. As they continued, I saw the cone-things emerge victorious in the war, driving the polypous things underground, where the polypous beings established a new society. It also showed some odd collection of shapes being imprisoned by the cone-things, with its prison being submerged into the ocean.
The next part showed humans encountering these underground beings, these polypous, amorphous, floating blobs. It depicted humans who received some sort of blessing from the beings, and became covered in eyes. And it depicted the humans mutating, warping into amorphous blobs themselves, changing their shape into these things.
"Do you see?" Michael said. "Now you see it, do you not? You see what most never do. You see the roots of this world, its foundations."
I asked about those horrible blobs, what sorts of things they were, and the cone-things.
"The First Race, they are the ones of whom you speak. They came here first, to Earth, when the planet was still cooling. The others, they came later, from Yith. Usurpers, genocidal maniacs. They tried to exterminate the First Race when they were merely trying to uplift the Yithians into a higher state of being. Of consciousness. They did not understand. So they drove the First Race underground, where they remained for a long time. But the First Race eventually rose up, and destroyed the invaders. And now, now they will grant us the gift that the Yithians spitefully rejected so long ago."
He removed one of his gloves, and I gasped, recoiling in horror as I did.
"Do not be afraid," he said. "I have begun the transformation. Soon, I will go underground, and join them in their caves. Soon, my consciousness will be uplifted, and my flesh will undergo a wonderful change. And when I do, you must take over the manor. I have no children, but you are young. Raise a family, and do what I failed to do. Continue my legacy."
In truth, I do not know what I said. I know that I noticed the floor beneath me being black stone, with the outline of a door being visible underneath me. The draft, it came not from above, but from beneath. I know that there was a fight, for I awoke in the aftermath, covered in blood, though not my own. Michael laid dead against the wall in the room, his head bashed in. Parts of his body were gone, disintegrated into nothingness upon his death. To be honest, I am grateful for that. For while the parts that remained were undoubtedly recognisable as Michael Riley, the hand he showed me had been covered in multiple, unblinking, inhuman eyes, staring at me with ancient, alien malice. Those were not the eyes of Michael Riley – they were the eyes of the polypous one, the First Race, the ones that lurked beneath that trap door, waiting for their chance to rise up against the surface once more. The only solace in all of this is something Michael told me – that these things would not arise until their leader – nay, their god – returned once more. The one the leather-bound tome had labelled Soath. I can only hope that I do not live to see that day.