Chapter Text
Approximately 4 O’clock in the morning, Connecticut
It has been four and a quarter centuries since I last picked up a quill (the utensil I’m currently using, I’ve been told, is called a “pen”) and wrote in a journal. I write this in a house, in a living room. In the absence of a suitable light source (an oil lamp, candles, magic) I am reduced to writing by the dim orange glow of something called a “streetlamp”: a tall, long, metallic-looking thing with a singular bright eye which casts a beam through the window. What nightmarish creatures have come to inhabit this realm since I disappeared from it, I am yet to find out. Research will begin as soon as possible; I must find a way back. For now, the “streetlamp” watches me. It’s judgmental. I don’t like it.
Having spent so long in that hellish dimension I had forgotten the touch and smell of rain. Rain that doesn’t boil; doesn’t strip the skin when it touches exposed flesh (there was a reason I spent centuries covered by heavy robes, and it had nothing to do with my condition or identity- of which I am no longer completely certain). Upon emerging from that terrible catastrophe beyond the portal I was simultaneously relieved and horrified by the sensation of cold water striking my wretched form. Perhaps because it reminds me so much of the lake, or perhaps because I simply no longer remember what a rainstorm feels like. What it sounds like, also. It has been storming all through the night and well into the early morning. The sound against the glass is… strange.
What horrendous luck I’ve had this past day. Everything has gone so, so very wrong. My plan is in shambles, truly. A tragedy. Here I sit, in a small family home in North America, while that insufferable little trickster plays make-believe in the perfect structure I created! All that time, all those sacrifices and sigils, and this is how he repays me? I should have shattered that plate the second it no longer served me.
After the catastrophe, I inexplicably found myself here. Not home; not the place I remember, just… somewhere else. Finally. Exhausted and humiliated, I dragged myself through the treeline until I regained use of my legs (rickety old things; the bad ankle never healed) and came upon this quaint dwelling. Seeking refuge from the terrible cold and the freakish creatures that stalk the roads (“traffic cones”, inorganic lifeforms, possibly related to the “streetlamp”), I enquired at the front door. Who should inhabit this house, but the mother of the human who wronged me. Yes. That one. The one with cat ears.
The mother is kind, perhaps too kind for her own good, sheltering demons the way she does. They are all here: the cat-eared girl and her arsonist girlfriend, the tiny illusionist, the scary one whose name escapes me, the mistake and- seemingly- their pet basilisk. The basilisk has even given itself a name. A name! The audacity!
No, nothing is right here. The mother knows not what evils she has willfully invited into their home. However, for now, this is my only shelter. Like I said, she is kind. Small, portly, human. When she answered her front door to me I heard the cat-eared one shout not to let me inside. She frantically (and messily) informed her mother of my authority, as she should have. Smart girl. Meanwhile, the mistake retreated into a corner and began to hyperventilate. The others simply started wailing like confused wyrms.
The mother- she is so very kind; I must take advantage of it- invited me indoors on the condition that I do not approach the children. No problem; I have had quite enough of them. Upon sending the varmints to bed, she graciously provided me with a quilt and allowed me a bed in the form of the living room couch. It is warm in here. I must admit she keeps a lovely home. There is a single white lily contained within a vase upon the windowsill.
She also provided me with this journal. It has a unicorn on the front cover. How garish.
They are sleeping at the moment. The basilisk, the plant-girl, the brat and the arsonist are upstairs. The tiny illusionist is sharing the basement with the mistake. That boy… When he wakes at dawn I may cave in his miserable skull with a “toaster”. That will serve him right for defying me.
Dawn approaches. I must close this journal before the others rise. I will hide it behind the cushions.
Note to self: portal construction must begin immediately; the Collector must be sealed