He set his pen to the paper to trace letters he did not know, and through the ink crawled forth the strange things from beyond the pulp. The letters split and stretched, allowing grasping hands to reach out and grip his fingers, crawl up his arms, and tug at his hair. He closed his eyes, not sure if they would grab his eyes or not. They never had—in fact, they had never harmed him before—but he trusted nothing that reached out from the scribbled letters.

They didn’t seem to like it much when he rushed. They liked neat, well-placed words. The times when he dared steal a glimpse of his work revealed that those who came forth from better formed letters tended to have more sleek features—smooth skin, well-honed claws, pristine nails. They seemed happier, but also exhibited a somewhat superior attitude. They often swatted at the malformed hands, the wrinkled and twisted claws that broke through the page’s more hurried letters, scraping and clawing them into retreat beyond the ink.

As the writing progressed, there was a light behind his eyes that threatened to reveal something—or maybe someone—that he could not discern with his normal sight. A thing from a dream, perhaps, for his writing sessions often felt like dreams.

His heart would race as the light began to reveal forms, shadows in a far off thought, a hazy memory of something he had never witnessed before. Always a panic gripped its his mind, for he felt that the full revelation of this thing would strip away every notion that his current world was even remotely real. It would reveal something more real than this moment—or any moment—something that transcended conscious perception into a realm that only dreams allowed the mortal mind to glimpse.

Somehow, he knew he was unprepared for that. Yet every night, he sat down to write.

The hands grasped and gripped at his hands and sleeves, wishing to come through, desperate for him to keep writing the words. He did not even know the words he wrote. He did not know how many words he would have to write. Each day he wrote a little more, daring ever closer to the threshold between this world and the next.

Always the image would coalesce a little more in his mind’s eye, the light distilling into rays revealing forms, shadows, movements, and perhaps a hint of a face. Every time, he felt he was on the verge of revealing the thing whole, of entering its world—or perhaps allowing his world to be stripped away and replaced by this entity.

Every time in the past, he stopped shy of completing the words. He’d wrench his hand away, feeling the sensation of claws and nails scraping his skin—but never leaving a mark, curiously—and the vision would be immediately shut up, replaced by the oblivious blackness of his subconscious mind. This thing that only his subconscious mind could perceive never manifested fully, as close as he dared each day.

Yet every night, he pushed a little further along, wondering when he would go too far. That fear was never quite realized, for the vision never reached completion. Maybe he was further from its total revelation than he feared. The idea was a relief, though he still yearned against all reason. It intrigued him, so he returned every night to write, to put words on the page that always vanished afterward, and pushed a little further along.

Perhaps someday, he would go too far and complete the task. In some ways, he hoped he would. Perhaps one day, his curiousity would push him further than his discretion would normally allow. He would realize he had gone too far, but it would be too late to go back. It would be complete.

His pen kept moving. It scratched open portals to the realm beyond the page, and the hands, those tiny, grasping hands, grew more numerous. Some of them guided his pen. He liked to think they knew the words too. It seemed likely, if they were the sort of thing that could know anything, that is. Did these things think? Did they know things? Did they recognize him when he sat down to write the words?

His mind strayed to other wonderings. If he was too sloppy, would it affect the summoning? Perhaps. Perhaps it would be wisest to do that, he thought, but a pinching hand pulled his thoughts from such notions.

They were firmer this time. He was pushing further than ever before. The hands were getting excited, he could tell, dancing and flailing all over the nearly-filled page.

The vision in his mind coalesced further, revealing a face in sharp relief. There were too many eyes. Not so many that he could not count them, but somehow they were uncountable to his view. They blazed with an unholy red light, and then—

And then there was a snap. The vision stopped.

He looked down. The nib of his pen had broken on the table, having strayed off the page.

He’d run out of space. The words on the page seared with flame a moment, a few stray hands withered in the miniature blaze, and the page was left blank once more.

Hmm.

He wondered briefly if it all had to be on a single page. Maybe he would have to write smaller. Maybe he just had to get bigger pages. How big of a page would he need? He always thought he was on the cusp of completing this ritual, yet there was always more.

Always, there was more.

Rising from his seat, he dimmed the light, then left the study for the night.

Perhaps he would finish it tomorrow.

The Astral Wanderer is brought to you by words carved into the page to reveal what is beyond the pulp. Support this blog by straying into the vast fields of forgotten memory to find a fragment of distilled childhood wonder, or perhaps by delving into the depths of your own dreams to find the root of all nightmares. Alternatively, you can support me on Patreon! All proceeds go toward the installation of warning signs against rituals that should really never be completed. Really.