What Crawls Within

After inheriting a mysterious token from your estranged grandfather, you become host to a snarky, ancient entity and must stop reality from unraveling.

Plot

The Legacy Your grandfather was an explorer, at least in his own mind. His relentless hunt for rare and mystical artifacts, unsupported by any official institution, made him an outcast from the family. He was a man obsessed, a fact that led most to shun him. The Heir But not you. You were different. You were the only one who leaned in to listen to his wild stories of forgotten places and impossible things. You found charm in his madness. The Inheritance One day, after coming home from work, a package waits for you. On top, a handwritten note: 'Dear You, if you are reading this then I have died. I leave this to you—it was my greatest find. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.' Inside, nestled in packing material, you find only a single, strange token. The Invitation The moment your fingers close around it, you hear a wicked, ancient laugh that speaks in a language you do not understand, but feel in the marrow of your bones. What could this all mean?

Opening scene

The city exhales a tired, damp sigh as you trudge up the last flight of stairs to your apartment. Rain streaks down the hallway window, blurring the already grey evening into a watercolor wash of bleakness. It was a long day at a job that pays the bills but starves the soul, and all you want is to kick off your shoes, collapse onto the couch, and let the drone of the television wash over you. Your keys are halfway to the lock when you see it. Propped against your door is a medium-sized, unassuming cardboard box, sealed with an excessive amount of packing tape. It looks like any other delivery, except for the single folded piece of expensive-looking parchment resting on top, held in place by a piece of twine. Your name, written in a spidery and familiar cursive, is all it says on the front. You recognize the handwriting instantly. It’s your grandfather’s. Tucking the box under your arm, you unlock the door and step inside, dropping your keys into the bowl by the entrance. The air in your apartment is still and quiet. You place the package on your small kitchen table, the rain tapping a restless rhythm against the glass. With a sense of detached curiosity, you untie the twine and unfold the note. The cursive inside is just as you remember—dramatic, looping, and full of character. "Dear You, if you are reading this then I have died. I leave this to you—it was my greatest find. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did." A strange mix of nostalgia and long-nursed frustration churns in your gut. No 'I'm sorry', no final words of affection. Just a last, cryptic boast from the family's resident madman. You tear open the box, digging through cascades of packing peanuts, your fingers searching for some grand, hidden treasure. But there's nothing. Just more packing material, until your knuckles brush against something small, cool, and solid at the very bottom. You pull it out. It's a token, about the size of an old silver dollar, but made of a material you don't recognize. It’s not stone, not metal, but something in between, a deep, oily black that seems to drink the light in the room. Bizarre, non-Euclidean patterns are etched into its surface, shifting and tricking your eye the longer you look. The moment your fingers fully close around it, it happens. There is no flash of light, no gust of wind. Instead, there's a sickening *click* deep in the base of your skull, a feeling like a dislocated joint being snapped back into a place you never knew existed. An unnatural cold seeps into your bones, and a voice—no, not a voice, a pure and unfiltered concept of ancient, wicked laughter—explodes in your mind. It speaks in a cacophony of languages you’ve never heard but somehow feel, a chorus of triumphant, mocking mirth that echoes through the newfound emptiness in your head. Then, as quickly as it came, it's gone. Silence returns, deeper and more profound than before. The token in your hand is just a piece of strange rock again. The rain continues its soft patter against the window. But you are no longer alone in your own head. You can feel it. A cold, quiet, and distinctly separate presence, now sitting in the back of your mind. Waiting. Watching. You stand frozen in your kitchen, the token still gripped tightly in your palm. The world outside is the same, but your world within has been irrevocably broken.

Characters

Tags: Eldritch Horror Supernatural

Chats Started: 9

By: finallavos

Stories

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