Axel Bonafette, The Storyteller

Have you heard the story of the storyteller?

Alexandria Bonafette was your normal everyday woman. She worked and lived in an orphanage with a population of 13 exactly. She was tall and gentle, a kind voice and a loving heart. She was tall, 6' exactly. But she had her moments. Each night at exactly 12 pm she would crawl from her bed and read a book called the Necronomicon with only the fire as light. She would read the terrifying tales aloud and scare any children that had come down to take food. One in particular, a young boy named Henry, had done it many times. Alexandria still did it each night. It drove Henry insane.

Henry was also a skittish child, not long after his tenth time trying he committed suicide. Hung in his closet. Alexandria's sanity went with him and she lashed out at anyone, child or not, around her. She'd been tried again and again but always was found innocent. Soon after the third court visit she bought a knife and cut up each and every child into little bits, feeding them to the cats around her orphanage.

A fire broke out a few days after and Alex was said to have died, but in the charred remains a woman had walked. All she had was a book and a knife. Nearly a year later another form was seen in the skeleton house, as everyone called it, as only drywall and a few metal gurders remained, a boy about Henry's size with his hair. Around his neck was a tight scarf, the same blood red as the one that had killed Henry. He was named Rhed.

Another sighting of a small girl was seen there, her eyes black pits. Her skin seemed cut up and her bones stuck out at odd angles. But she walked. Mangled, they started to call her.

The murders started in 1956, fifteen years after Alexandria died. It was said that a woman would appear, reading from a large book with bloody words spelling out " Necronomicon ". She would strike fear into the hearts of the people before a mangled form and a boy would kill everyone in the house.

Thus the storyteller was born. Nicknamed Axel, a simple rearranged version of Alex.

" Out of what crypt they crawl, I cannot tell,
But every night I see the rubbery things,
Black, horned, and slender, with membranous wings,
They come in legions on the north wind’s swell
With obscene clutch that titillates and stings,
Snatching me off on monstrous voyagings
To grey worlds hidden deep in nightmare’s well.

Over the jagged peaks of Thok they sweep,
Heedless of all the cries I try to make,
And down the nether pits to that foul lake
Where the puffed shoggoths splash in doubtful sleep.
But ho! If only they would make some sound,
Or wear a face where faces should be found! "