Seep Seep Will Gailliard Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Seep Seep Will Gailliard Will Gailliard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Seep I t began; as such calamities often do, with whis- pers too faint to be trusted and dreams too hid- eous to be remembered in full. Men and women of restless constitution, insomniacs, febrile poets, shell-shocked veterans, and those fragile of mind, reported visitations in the still hours before dawn. They told of landscapes drenched in a colour not yet named by earthly tongues, of corridors that curved back upon themselves, and of voices that seemed to speak from behind the very fabric of slumber. Few could recall more than fragments, yet all awoke with an identical dread, as though their souls had been fingered by something vast and unseen. Will Gailliard In the coastal hamlets near Arkham and Kingsport, sailors muttered of shadows that preceded their cast- ers, crawling along wharf and wall like beetles in oil. Children, too young to lie with conviction, swore that they had seen faces pressing outward from the thin membranes of mirrors and puddles, mouths open- ing in silent screams before dissolving in ripples. At first, these stories were relegated to the realm of tavern-tales and superstitious gossip. Learned men in their studies and clergymen from their pulpits dismissed such rumours with a patronizing smile, unwilling to credit the possibility of any breach be- tween the known world and that abyss which dreams conceal. But there are always a few whose eyes are attuned to subtler vibrations, those rare and unhappy souls who can feel when the veil trembles. A derelict on the Arkham docks, red-eyed and rancid with spirits, was overheard describing how the planks of the tav- ern floor had grown translucent under his gaze. From beneath, a substance like curdled ink had seeped up- ward, gathering into the crude semblance of a thing with too many joints and too little coherence. “It hat- ed me,” he croaked, “hated me like a dog hates the man that beats it, but older, older than hate itself!” Seep He laughed then, a bubbling, humourless sound, be- fore sinking back into his stupor. Though the wise and respectable scoffed, some in- stinct older than reason knew better. Dogs whined at empty doorways. Infants refused to sleep. A pall hung upon the air in Arkham, Kingsport, and beyond, as though the very act of waking were a fragile defence doomed to fail once the proper pressure was applied. For the truth, unacknowledged yet undeniable, was this: some vast intelligence, alien to both heaven and earth, had turned its baleful attention upon our sphere. And with that attention came seepage. Will Gailliard The First Seepings The first true manifestation was recorded in the ragged quarter on Arkham’s eastern edge, where soot-blackened chimneys coughed their final smoke into skies already dimmed by autumn clouds. It was there, among the crumbling tenements and fetid al- leys, that three unlikely souls converged, each drawn by rumour, instinct, or grim vocation. Dr. Eliza Crowe walked briskly, notebook pressed to her breast as if the very act of writing could shield her from the crawling unease that prickled along her nerves. She was a woman of the sciences, schooled in rational discourse, yet burdened by patients who dreamt too vividly of things no sane tongue would name. Seep Jonas Pike, broad-shouldered and perpetually scowling, tramped at her side. His limp and muttered curses spoke of war, of trenches where sleep came with the sound of distant shellfire and where sanity was forever mortgaged against survival. “If I’m to see another nightmare, Doctor,” he growled, “it had bet- ter bleed when shot. I’ve little patience left for phan- toms.” The third, Father Mallory, kept slightly behind. His collar was askew, his cassock stained with pipe ash, and his manner irreverent to the point of blasphemy. He laughed softly, almost merrily, at Pike’s complaint. “If it does bleed, my son, perhaps we can bottle it, sell it to Miskatonic for research. Arkham would at last be good for something other than mildew and mad- ness.” They had not long to wait. A vagrant, gaunt and trembling, lay slumped against the rotting boards of an abandoned tavern. His eyes fluttered, his chest rising and falling with unnatural shudders, as if a second set of lungs worked beneath his flesh. Eliza crouched, murmuring words of reassurance, though her fingers trembled as they brushed his fevered brow. Will Gailliard The man convulsed, jaw cracking open far wider than nature allowed, and a ghastly fluid, black yet glimmering with impossible hues, poured forth. It did not drip as liquid should, but clung and climbed, writhing upward as though eager for form. Jonas cursed, stumbling back. “Christ Almighty...” “Leave Him out of this,” Mallory quipped, though his own face had gone pale. “He’s not taking calls to- night.” Before their eyes, the fluid coalesced into limbs, jointed at wrong angles, sprouting and retracting with obscene indecision. A head, if such it could be called, thrust forward, slick with a parody of eyes that opened only to dissolve into sockets of lightless void. It swayed, sniffing the air not with nostrils but with its whole surface, as if hungering for the very substance of reality. The vagrant collapsed, hollowed as though his es- sence had been consumed. Eliza staggered back, voice breaking. “It... it came out of him. Not through dream, not symbol—out!” Jonas drew his revolver with a grunt. “Good. That means it can die.” He fired. Seep The report echoed like thunder in the close alley. A bullet struck the thing’s torso, if the term had mean- ing... and splattered ichor across the tavern wall. Yet the ichor writhed, rejoining the body in defiance of all logic. Mallory clapped slowly, a grim smile twisting his lips. “Marvelous. Our gallant veteran has succeeded in making it angry.” The creature shrieked, though the sound resem- bled not a cry but the tearing of paper under water. It lurched forward with grotesque speed, limbs elon- gating, reaching for them with talons that were and were not solid. Jonas fired again, retreating, swearing like a man with nothing left to lose. “Damn it! Bullets go in, nothing stays down. Same problem I had with the Huns.” “Perhaps diplomacy?” Mallory offered, though his hands shook as he raised a makeshift crucifix fash- ioned from two pencils bound by twine. He thrust it forward with theatrical zeal. “Back, beast of night- mares, back into the void that spawned you!” The thing paused—not in reverence, but in gro- Will Gailliard tesque mockery. Its limbs twisted, mimicking Mal- lory’s gesture, until it too held a cross of darkness within its shifting mass. Then, with a lurch, it hurled the symbol aside, rattling brickwork as if to sneer at human faith. Eliza’s voice rang sharp. “It’s not bound by symbol or shot, it’s dream-stuff, leaking where it should not. Scatter it—burn it, break its cohesion!” Jonas spat. “Scatter? Lady, that’s no swarm of rats. That’s a bloody nightmare with teeth.” Still, he obeyed. Striking a match from his battered tin, he thrust the flame against a rag soaked in spir- its, his only indulgence besides curses. Fire flared, uncertain against the damp night, but when hurled upon the thing, it clung. The creature writhed, colours boiling into shapes never meant for mortal sight. For an instant, the al- ley was lit by phosphorescent brilliance, shadows wriggling in mockery of their casters. Then the enti- ty shuddered, collapsed into a puddle of black milk, and seeped back through the cracks between cobble- stones, as though sucked into some hungering abyss. All fell silent. Only the stench remained, ozone, Seep rot, and something older, like the musk of ancient tombs long unsealed. Jonas holstered his revolver, shaking his head. “I’ve killed men, rats, and once an officer’s horse by acci- dent, but never something that turns into a puddle and flees through the floor. You’ll forgive me if I don’t count this a victory.” Mallory exhaled, brushing soot from his sleeves. “On the contrary, I call it progress. We survived. That’s no small achievement in a city that eats its own even without nightmare-spawn.” Eliza, pale but resolute, closed her notebook with a snap. “No. This is only the beginning. You saw how it returned to the cracks. The barrier is thin. More will follow.” Her words hung in the night air, heavy with fore- boding. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled the hour—but the sound was warped, as though heard from beneath water. Jonas and Mal- lory exchanged glances, neither eager to voice the thought that gnawed at them both: perhaps Arkham itself was already dreaming, and they were but fig- ures caught in its restless sleep. Will Gailliard The Cities Dream Arkham had always borne the reek of age, its crooked streets and weathered eaves steeped in his- tories best left unspoken. Yet now the town seemed more than merely old, it seemed restless , as if each building, each stone, each cobbled lane tossed uneas- ily in its sleep. Lamps guttered with no wind to dis- turb them, shadows lingered in defiance of the sun, and entire neighbourhoods fell silent without cause, as though time itself had chosen to pause and con- sider some dreadful alternative. Dr. Eliza Crowe led Jonas Pike and Father Mallo- ry down Garrison Street, clutching her notebook so tightly her knuckles blanched. “We must assume,” Seep she said, her voice clipped and brittle, “that what we witnessed was not singular. The seepage, if that is what we may call it, is increasing. Something press- es against the veil, and the veil cannot endure much longer.” Jonas spat into the gutter, his boot heels clattering with weary defiance. “I’ve seen fronts collapse fast- er than this town is unravelling, but at least bullets stopped Germans. This...” he gestured vaguely at the crooked shadows pooling along the wall...“this is be- yond my pay grade.” Mallory puffed at his pipe, unlit for lack of tobac- co, and grinned crookedly. “Then pray, my son. Pray that when the world ends, it ends with a decent bottle of whiskey in reach. I’ve no taste for eternity sober.” Their grim banter faltered as a scream cut through the air, a thin, ragged sound that did not taper into silence but bent back upon itself, echoing from alleys and eaves as though unwilling to die. They rushed forward, turning the corner onto an open square where a small crowd had gathered, wide-eyed and trembling. At the square’s center stood a street preacher, his voice once booming with fire and condemnation, Will Gailliard now reduced to whimpers. His head swelled gro- tesquely, veins standing like ropes beneath pallid skin. With a wet, revolting crack, the skull split, not to spill brain or bone, but to unfurl a monstrous bloom of black-veined petals, each tipped with a mouth that mouthed sermons in discordant unison. The crowd shrieked. Some fled. Others knelt in stunned devotion, mistaking this blasphemy for a sign divine. Jonas raised his revolver, muttering, “What the hell do you shoot when the head’s turned into a flower- pot?” “Perhaps the roots,” Mallory suggested lightly, though his knuckles whitened on his makeshift cru- cifix. “If God refuses to answer, bullets might still suffice.” Eliza, trembling but resolute, shouted above the din: “No... don’t! Violence feeds them. They thrive upon disruption, upon the very fear we exude!” As if in answer, the preacher’s voice-mouthed pet- als chanted in tones both low and shrill, weaving non- sense syllables into hymns that rattled the marrow. From their roots seeped black ichor, spreading like a Seep tide across the cobblestones. The air shimmered, as if the square itself were being rewritten by some alien hand. The three forced their way through the scattering crowd. Jonas drew a flask, splashed it over his bullets, and muttered grimly, “If it’s going to eat our fear, I’ll make damn sure it chokes on whiskey first.” He fired. The bullet struck the ichor-soaked cobble, igniting a burst of flame that licked hungrily at the ooze. The flowered head shrieked, its many mouths spitting curses in languages both forgotten and un- born. The ichor recoiled, retreating into cracks with a hiss like boiling fat. The preacher’s body collapsed, spent, a husk of robes and bones. The square fell silent but for the trio’s ragged breaths. Mallory exhaled a laugh, grim and cracked. “A mir- acle, then. Whiskey at last proved useful in church.” Eliza glared, but her voice shook with the weight of her conclusion. “No miracle. The veil thins further each hour. Arkham no longer wakes, it dreams, and the dream leaks outward. Soon it will not stop with Will Gailliard one preacher, one alley, one square. The entire city will become the Dreamlands’ plaything.” As if to punctuate her words, a child’s scream erupted from across the square. They turned to see a little girl clutching her doll but the doll’s shadow had grown teeth, gnawing its way free from her grip. It bit the air, pulling itself upright, jaws snapping with hunger. Jonas swore, firing again, but the shadow dissolved into smoke, reforming behind him with a growl like tearing parchment. Only when Eliza thrust her note- book toward it, pages filled with the dreams of her patients, did it recoil, as if repulsed by its own like- ness given form. They fled the square, hearts pounding, the cries of Arkham rising all around them as the seepage spread unchecked. At last they staggered into the cloistered halls of Miskatonic University, its musty air a perverse com- fort. Beneath yellowing lamps and shelves bowed with forbidden texts, they consulted the Liber Som- niorum , a worm-eaten tome penned by dreamers centuries dead. Seep The script spoke of The Seep , a thinning of barri- ers when the stars tilted and the cosmos shifted its weight upon fragile mortal shores. “It is not inva- sion,” Eliza whispered, tracing the curling script with trembling fingers. “It is leakage. Dreams spill when pressed too heavily. Which means something presses against us even now.” Jonas leaned heavily against a shelf, revolver dan- gling in his hand. “So the question is, what’s pressing? And when it breaks through, will whiskey, bullets, or prayers make a damn bit of difference?” Mallory grinned, though his eyes glimmered with unease. “If not, my son, then we shall discover the next best thing: what punchline the cosmos prefers when the curtain falls.” Their laughter, hollow, defiant, echoed too loudly in the vaulted silence, as though something vast and faceless listened from just beyond the shelves. Will Gailliard The Tearing Veil The clocktower loomed above Arkham like a senti- nel who had forgotten its charge, its hands frozen at an hour no mortal could read. The bells tolled with- out clappers, booming with a sound that made teeth ache and shadows ripple. Stairways twisted into im- possible geometry, windows blinked like eyes, and the very air quivered with the thinness of the world. “It’s begun,” Eliza whispered, staring upward. Her voice cracked like old paper. “The seepage isn’t scat- tered anymore. The tower is the breach.” Jonas spat, revolver heavy in his fist. “Of course it’d be the damn tower. Always some Gothic pile of stones that wants to kill you. Never a bakery.”