Page 1 of These Thoughts Are Not Your Own

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The last candle flares to life, its wavering flame casting flickering shadows on the damp, mildewed walls of the basement. Alden’s hand trembles as he withdraws the match, the faint hiss of sulfur mixing with his muttered curses when the flame licks too close and singes his fingers. The charred matchstick tumbles from his grasp, landing perilously close to the carefully drawn chalk lines of the pentagram. He bends quickly, sweat beading at his temples, snatching it up before it can mar the intricate sigils. His breath is shallow, each inhale heavy with the thick, oppressive air of the underground chamber.

Straightening, Alden surveys his work. The chalk pentagram gleams faintly under the candlelight, its precise geometry unmarred by his clumsiness. The circle of salt surrounding it sparkles faintly, a reassuring barrier against the forces he intends to summon—or so he hopes. The dimness of the basement presses in on him, the scant illumination making it feel as though the walls are closing in. How he longs for the new electric lights upstairs, but the thought of letting workers into this sanctum, this sacred and secretive space, was unthinkable. This was his domain alone.

At his desk, Alden rifles through a chaotic collection of books and papers, his fingers brushing against the worn leather bindings of volumes that should not exist, their pages brimming with forbidden knowledge. The lantern beside him flickers, its blue flame ghostly and ethereal. He adjusts the wick, coaxing a steadier, golden glow that pushes back the shadows enough to read. His eyes flit to the narrow, grimy windows near the ceiling, where the cold light of the rising full moon seeps in, pale and distant. The timing must be exact.

Alden casts another glance at the salt circle, his sharp features taut with unease. Though he is too far to see if a single grain is out of place, the anxiety gnaws at him. He wipes his damp palms on his trousers and returns to the desk. Tonight, years of painstaking research, years of chasing shadows through moldy archives and obscure libraries, will either bear fruit or end in bitter failure. Failure like his father’s.

The thought of Harridan—the man who had wasted a fortune and a lifetime in pursuit of spectral whispers—tightens Alden’s jaw. Harridan’s obsession with resurrecting Maratelle, his wife, had consumed him entirely. That madness had driven him to squander resources and abandon reality in favor of chasing ghosts. And what had come of it? Nothing but ruin and ridicule. Worse still was the cold disregard Harridan had shown Alden’s mother, Yvette—a mere kitchen maid, disposable in his eyes, even as she bore his bastard son. Harridan hadn’t lifted a finger to save her from a sickness that money could have easily cured.

No, Alden's motivations were not borne of love or grief, but of defiance. He would succeed where his father had failed, not for sentiment but for vindication. To prove that his father’s pursuit, misguided and myopic, had been aimed at the wrong prize.

Alden’s hand falters as he brushes over a delicate, yellowed page, its edges curling with age. The illustrations on the parchment seem alive in the lantern light, grotesque figures writhing in unnatural poses. The warnings scrawled in multiple languages across the margins do nothing to deter him; if anything, they stoke his determination. He checks his pocket watch—a family heirloom, though he loathes the connection to his father—and nods.

The hour has come.

With deliberate care, Alden moves a heavy podium to the edge of the summoning circle, the old wood creaking under the weight of the massive tome he sets atop it. The book’s cover is slick with a texture that makes his stomach churn—a leather that feels too much like skin. The damp cold of the basement bites at his fingers, but his focus does not waver.

For a moment, he hesitates. The air feels heavier, pressing against his chest as if daring him to proceed. He exhales sharply, brushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and opens the book.

The lantern flickers.

The words tumble from his lips, ancient syllables rasping against his throat like gravel. The language is one he has studied but never dared to speak aloud until now, its guttural cadence reverberating in the stillness. The candles begin to burn brighter, their flames stretching upward like grasping fingers. The lantern behind him gutters out entirely, plunging the room into a surreal dance of shadows and firelight.

Nothing happens at first. Alden’s voice falters, frustration bubbling to the surface. He wonders if this, too, will be a failure. His thoughts turn to burning the book, the papers—destroying every trace of this folly and resigning himself to the path his mother had wished for him: medicine, a quiet life of healing rather than this dangerous flirtation with the unknown. He moves to close the book, but his fingers refuse to lift from the page.

The air grows silent.

Not silent in the way of an empty room, but a deeper, more profound stillness. The howl of the wind ceases, the faint drip of condensation from the ceiling stops, even the flames make no sound as they rise impossibly high, forming a blazing cage around the pentagram.

Then, from the center of the circle, darkness begins to coalesce. It gathers like ink spilled in water, tendrils of shadow spiraling and writhing until they form a shape—towering, unnatural, and impossibly black. The edges of the figure seem to drink in the light, rendering it a void that defies comprehension.

Alden cannot breathe. He cannot move. His glasses slide down his nose and clatter to the floor, forgotten.

The figure shifts, its presence filling the room with a weight that crushes Alden’s thoughts into a singular, terrifying certainty: he has succeeded.

The darkness continues to churn in the center of the pentagram, thick and viscous, as if it were swallowing the air itself. Light seems to bend and flee from the hulking mass, its edges fraying and folding in unnatural ways. Alden’s eyes are riveted to the figure taking shape, his breath shallow and uneven as the shadows knit together into something grotesque yet tantalizingly human. His hands tremble at his sides, clinging to the edge of the podium as though it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

The flames of the candles leap higher, scorching the damp air with an oppressive heat. They form an intricate lattice around the summoning circle, bars of fire that flicker and pulse like a living thing. Alden winces at the intensity of the light, momentarily lifting an arm to shield his eyes. When he dares to look again, the shadow has solidified further. Its massive head looms perilously close to the rough-hewn beams above, and its lower half writhes like a living void, a bubbling mist that devours the floor beneath it.

The figure's presence fills the room like a storm about to break, its aura pressing against Alden’s senses in ways that feel more than physical. He can taste it, acrid and metallic, like blood and burning iron. The stench of decay wafts toward him, making his stomach twist.

Then it speaks.

A voice drips from the shadows, a sound that seems to crawl out of a grave. It’s guttural and wet, each syllable landing like a hammer blow. Alden's name slithers out of the figure's mouth, each syllable elongated and alien.

“A-Alden,” he manages to stammer, his voice breaking under the weight of his terror.

“All-den,” the creature repeats, drawing the name out as if savoring the flavor. Its voice shifts, smooth and mocking, resonating like shattered glass scraping against stone. “You would prefer I speak your tongue, wouldn’t you?”

A grin splits the darkness—a slash of sharp, white teeth gleaming unnaturally bright against the infinite black of its form. Alden’s knees weaken at the sight. There is no face, no eyes, no features, only that horrifying crescent of teeth, impossibly long and jagged. He gasps involuntarily, his pulse roaring in his ears.

“Yes,” he croaks, barely managing to speak. “Speak your name, beast of darkness.”

The creature inclines its amorphous head, the movement almost mockingly slow. “Bhalka,” it says, the name a vile, guttural noise that seems to bypass Alden’s ears entirely, reverberating in his mind like the tolling of a cursed bell.

Alden shudders at the sound, the syllables laced with meanings he cannot grasp but instinctively fears. His voice wavers, but he forces his words out. “You are not who I called.”

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