The Writer's Parents

I am writing this letter in regards to the recent unexplained disappearance of the celebrated writer Carl Westinger. Rumors abound pointing to rather odd and unbelievable circumstances surrounding his disappearance, which might ordinarily be passed off as the crazed ramblings of the strange people that Westinger was known to keep company with. However, I feel that these rumors can, and should be taken as viable explanations for Westinger’s disappearance. I hope that by relating an experience I had with him in my youth, that credence might be given to these rumors.

It was September of 1996, I was fifteen at the time, and was attending a boy’s school in Arkham Massachusetts. I had been, since my twelfth year, well acquainted with Westinger’s work, and a great admirer of him as a writer. I was at the time aspiring to be a writer myself, and, as part of my studies, was required to write a letter to my favorite writer, inquiring about what inspired them to take up writing as a career. Naturally I wrote to Westinger. I was at the time a child of sober disposition, prone to strange thoughts and deep reflection, preferring to contemplate the mysteries of life whilst my companions spent their time engaged in the usual laughter and playfulness of youth. This Westinger instantly recognized in my letter, and responded warmly, causing a friendship to grow between us through the sending of letters.

In time we decided to meet for lunch, to discuss ideas and further our friendship. As I waited for him at the appointed place I received a phone call from him, asking me if it might be possible for me to meet him on a nearby street corner, and saying that he had something interesting he wanted to show me. He described the corner, and being familiar with it I told him that I would meet him shortly.

Upon arriving I had little trouble locating Westinger, and together we made our way to the nearby row of buildings. The buildings were older, from the early part of the century I would guess, and lurked mysteriously in shadow, presenting a stark contrast to the bright and carefree atmosphere of the park across the street. Westinger led me down some stairs to what appeared to be a basement apartment, with a solid oak door, and a sign on the door that said “We sell poetry.” Westinger raised his hand to knock on the old door, but then lowered his hand and turned to me with a serious look in his eye, and cautioned:

“You’re going to meet some people in here, and no matter what they ask, don’t do anything for them. No matter how simple or harmless it may seem, you must not do anything for these people.”

Then he turned and knocked on the door.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting especially after the warning I was given, but I was surprised when after a moment the door opened to reveal a smiling elderly lady in her 70’s. Her smile widened and brightened upon seeing us, and she opened the door saying:

“Carl, my son, it’s so good to see you! Come, and bring your friend.”
We walked through the doorway, and found ourselves back on the street. I thought it odd that we this woman should be waiting for us outside, and that a door should separate these stairways to the street, but I didn’t give it much thought as I followed the woman and my friend through the doorway and up the stairs to the street level.

Upon reaching the street I saw an old man, also in his seventies sitting on a cement bench and working on an old camera. When we drew near he looked up and smiled, then held the camera out to me and asked me to take a picture of him, his wife, and their son together. I started to reach for the camera, but gave a questioning glance to Westinger, and seeing a dark warning in his eyes I mumbled an apology to the old man and refrained from taking the camera. A shadow crossed over his face and he shot a quick glance at Westinger, but he put the camera away, and walked with us as we made our way across the street into the park.

As we walked through the park Westinger and his parents were in deep conversation, I didn’t hear much of the conversation because my attention was occupied by my surroundings. On the surface everything appeared to be normal, but it all had a feeling of hollowness, and superficiality, almost as though everything was merely an image, and there was no substance to it. It came to my attention that the conversation between my companions had started to become heated, and I turned my attention back to them just in time to hear Westinger yell:

“No! I only did this because I didn’t want to bury you all those years ago, but now I see what a mistake it was! This has gone too far, and I’m going to do now what I should have done long ago!”

With that he turned and urging me to follow him, started running towards the door that we had come through. As we turned and ran I heard an inhuman shriek issue from the old couple, and heard them start following us. Being younger, and shorter than Westinger, I wasn’t able to run as fast and soon there were several feet between me and him. The old couple moved with a speed and agility belying their age, and it wasn’t long before the old man caught up with us. Fortunately for me he was only interested in catching Westinger, and so passed me by and reached out claw-like hands towards Westinger’s back. I didn’t want to see my friend caught by this monstrosity and realized that the old woman probably wasn’t far behind, and that if they caught Westinger then it probably wouldn’t bode well for me. So I kicked at the old mans rapidly moving legs, causing him to trip, then I jumped over his prone body and continued my sprint for the door.

Looking back I saw that, as I had hoped, the old woman had tripped over the old man, and the two lay on the ground, I realized then that these could not be the parents of the writer I knew, because as the old man lifted his gaze towards me in anger I saw that his eyes had grown dark and burning, his face was contorted with rage and had a definitely demonic look to it. He and the woman, whose countenance was every bit as frightful as that of her husband, leaped to their feet, moving unlike any human I’ve ever witnessed, and took up the chase again.

We were by this time nearly to the door, and I threw myself through as Westinger opened the passageway back to our own city. Immediately after I got through he slammed the door shut, and sagged against it tiredly. I sat down breathing heavily and asked whether or not we were safe, if it wasn’t possible that the old couple would open the door and come through to complete whatever dark designs they had. Westinger turned and reassured me that we were quite safe now; that he had undone what had been done years before. Then he told me things, which make me believe all of the rumors concerning his recent mysterious disappearance. He spoke of dark rituals and forbidden rites, things which aught not to be done by men of this world. He told me how grief over the loss of his parents years ago had caused him to initiate unholy alliances with beings outside this world in an effort to bring them back. And in so doing he had been able to hold onto them for a while longer, but that each time he visited he saw more and more the corrupting influence of the evil beings that had given them life.

I asked if it might not be possible that some unsuspecting soul would open the door, and enter into that alternate reality, thus exposing himself to the dark intentions of those who lay beyond. But again my friend reassured me that their ability to do harm to anyone had passed. When pressed for knowledge of what had happened to the creatures that were once his parents, he stood up and motioned for me to stand up as well. Once we were both standing my friend swung the door open, exposing not a portal to another part of the city as had been before, but a dimly lit hallway of dirty and pitted concrete. And on the floor of the hallway, were two blackened skeletons, with their arms outstretched as though they were trying to reach something just beyond the door.