I’m not entirely certain how I get around to these fascinating little places. The scientists at the prison I escaped from claim that some of my ilk are attuned to another and significantly darker dimension, that our “neo-insanity” allows us to sympathize with its native chaos, granting us movement between it and the solid earth. That’s why I keep waking up in basements—there’s less resistance to the other world down here, where a serial killer might just pop out of thin air.
They call us neo-psychotics. You see, after that peculiar solar event that nearly drove the world crazy, some doctors believe it gave birth to a whole new type of insanity—one so strong it could shape the world around it. I can’t say that I’m not grateful. It certainly makes my job appreciably easier.
Now, every time I go to sleep—which the scientists claim increases my traction with the other side—I wake up in another basement. Of course, not all basements are created equal, but I generally arrive into the more dilapidated and shadow-strung variety, which I confess are my favorite. That I’ve now been named the Cellar King is also a new and likable addition to my life.
Not being one to look down upon a compliment, I’ve strived to fulfil my new moniker with gusto, constructing thrones from the wonderful junk reposed within these old places, and arranging my victims as subjects within my court of corpses. I’ve even started dressing the part. You should see the crown I’ve fashioned for myself, all bones and cobwebs. Why, I haven’t left the basement scene in years, only moving upstairs to gather my subjects, so to speak, use the facilities, and nourish myself. I also tend to stock up on sleeping pills whenever I run across them. I never know when I’m going to have to make a quick getaway.
The weird thing is, I’ve recently started to “feel” the basements around me, see through them, control them, maybe even become them. I can use cobwebs like vocal cords, whispering up from the hollows. The dank spaces become my mouth, allowing me to taste the effulgence of trespassers. I’ve eyes that see through underground shadows as if they were peepholes, and I can hear through the encrusted vents of an old furnace as clearly as my own ears. And all the filthy, nasty things that lurk and crawl down here obey me without question.
Equally strange, I’ve been oversleeping lately, not waking for days. On these rare occasions, I dream I’m buried within the earth, and a single house filled with all the children of Adam is built atop me. Soon, a cloaked man comes and steals me from the ground, into a dark room beneath the huge house. He shows me to a black throne, the stone of its construction cold and dank. I seat myself upon it and the man whispers, “Beneath them all, you will reign.”
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