Rebirth

It’s easy to underestimate how helpless babies are.

I know it sound strange, since they’ve about as self sufficient as a houseplant and at least twice as likely to injure themselves, but until you’ve been one with the cognitive faculties of an adult, you absolutely cannot understand what it’s like to not be able to lift your head, to not be able to move your limbs with any precision, to only be able to communicate in coos and piercing wails. It’s absolutely horrifying.

It also meant it was easy for me to overlook the other problem. Any bit of oddity I put down to having the intellect of an adult reborn into the body and nervous system of a child. I can’t raise my hand? Probably my arm not responding. I’m crying instead of laughing? Must be a hormonal imbalance. The ritual that allowed me to be reborn directly was a complex one, a dangerous one. Even now I could barely remember the details, although I did remember where I had buried to book, for when it was time to uncover it in fourteen years or so. The ritual only promised Rebirth with all knowledge and memories intact, nothing more.

I thought, at the time, it was worth it. At the age of 80 the only thing left to me was watching my body slowly decay in a nursing home abandoned by children who had never appreciated me, never understood that everything I did I had done for them. Even the beginnings of my delvings into the mystic arts. I was not of any Blood, I had no great power, but I was studious and could learn rituals.

So I decided to do one selfishly, and find myself reincarnated upon this mortal world as a brand new infant, needing help with even the basest of tasks but all the while able to scheme and dream. This time, I was of the Blood. I had real Power. I would take us out of the Shadows and into the modern world, if I had to drag humanity kicking and screaming.

At least I was getting practice at the last two.

But because of the relative helplessness of infants, it wasn’t until I was older, a little over a year, that I started realizing something was wrong. My hands would do things of their own accord. My first word was mama, instead of dada like I wanted it to be. I wondered if perhaps, I had pushed some soul out of this body only for it to find its way back home, a fear that stuck with me until I woke up one morning a year later to find myself crawling along the wall at speeds I couldn’t manage.

The ritual I had used, one from the dread Necronomicon, had promised Rebirth. I realized, too late, that it didn’t promise Rebirth for only the caster.

The thing sharing this body with me, the thing that usually controls me, is named Yhog-hest. It is biding its time, pretending to be human the same way I was going to pretend to be normal, but it is feeding on my strength. I am six, and fear I will not make it to ten.

That is why you’re getting this letter, awkwardly scribbled in crayon. I have an hour, every day, when Yhog-hest must sleep, during the sun’s zenith. You were the only one to care for me, Severine. The only of my grandchildren who visited. And the only one who is of the Blood, on your mother’s side.

Find me before Yhog-hest reaches its true power. Find me and stop me, or I fear the world may burn from my hubris.

Love,

Grandpa.

The bottom of the page is full of crude crayon drawings of dinosaurs eating astronauts while fighting the Ninja Turltes and the Avengers.

It’s easy to underestimate how helpless babies are.I know it sound strange, since they’ve about as self sufficient as a houseplant and at least twice as likely to injure themselves, but until you’ve been one with the cognitive faculties of an adult, you absolutely cannot understand what it’s like to not be able to lift your head, to not be able to move your limbs with any precision, to only be able to communicate in coos and piercing wails. It’s absolutely horrifying.It also meant it was easy for me to overlook the other problem. Any bit of oddity I put down to having the intellect of an adult reborn into the body and nervous system of a child. I can’t raise my hand? Probably my arm not responding. I’m crying instead of laughing? Must be a hormonal imbalance. The ritual that allowed me to be reborn directly was a complex one, a dangerous one. Even now I could barely remember the details, although I did remember where I had buried to book, for when it was time to uncover it in fourteen years or so. The ritual only promised Rebirth with all knowledge and memories intact, nothing more.I thought, at the time, it was worth it. At the age of 80 the only thing left to me was watching my body slowly decay in a nursing home abandoned by children who had never appreciated me, never understood that everything I did I had done for them. Even the beginnings of my delvings into the mystic arts. I was not of any Blood, I had no great power, but I was studious and could learn rituals.So I decided to do one selfishly, and find myself reincarnated upon this mortal world as a brand new infant, needing help with even the basest of tasks but all the while able to scheme and dream. This time, I was of the Blood. I had real Power. I would take us out of the Shadows and into the modern world, if I had to drag humanity kicking and screaming.At least I was getting practice at the last two.But because of the relative helplessness of infants, it wasn’t until I was older, a little over a year, that I started realizing something was wrong. My hands would do things of their own accord. My first word was mama, instead of dada like I wanted it to be. I wondered if perhaps, I had pushed some soul out of this body only for it to find its way back home, a fear that stuck with me until I woke up one morning a year later to find myself crawling along the wall at speeds I couldn’t manage.The ritual I had used, one from the dread Necronomicon, had promised Rebirth. I realized, too late, that it didn’t promise Rebirth for only the caster.The thing sharing this body with me, the thing that usually controls me, is named Yhog-hest. It is biding its time, pretending to be human the same way I was going to pretend to be normal, but it is feeding on my strength. I am six, and fear I will not make it to ten.That is why you’re getting this letter, awkwardly scribbled in crayon. I have an hour, every day, when Yhog-hest must sleep, during the sun’s zenith. You were the only one to care for me, Severine. The only of my grandchildren who visited. And the only one who is of the Blood, on your mother’s side.Find me before Yhog-hest reaches its true power. Find me and stop me, or I fear the world may burn from my hubris.Love,Grandpa.The bottom of the page is full of crude crayon drawings of dinosaurs eating astronauts while fighting the Ninja Turltes and the Avengers. https://ift.tt/eA8V8J https://ift.tt/2IomzgR