The Tremors Of Abaddon

"That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die."—H.P. Lovecraft

A series of powerful earthquakes shook the world in 1925. I am Roger Alvarado, a scientist and seismologist, who was studying this mysterious phenomenon at the university in San Francisco. I was well-versed in the causes and effects of earthquakes.

In 1906, I had survived one that killed more than 3,000 people and devastated 80 percent of San Francisco. The recent Charlevoix–Kamouraska earthquake in Canada was still fresh in my mind. I had been there to witness the destruction firsthand. That quake registered 6.2 on the moment magnitude scale. Yet, in all my years as a man of science, nothing would prepare me for the unspeakable horror uncovered that year. A horror lingering in essence and terrifying in its manifestation.

For a week, I had immersed myself in trying to decipher the similarities between the Montana Earthquake, the Charlevoix–Kamouraska Earthquake, the Sydney Earthquake, and the Santa Barbara Earthquake. All occurred in 1925. It couldn’t be mere coincidence. They shared similar aftershock patterns and produced equally devastating destruction.

I identified identical seismic patterns among them. Never would I have imagined that something mysterious might link them to a primordial terror lurking beneath the Earth—tremors from hell itself.

I was well acquainted with the work of Richard Dixon Oldham, who first proved Earth had a central core, and with Andrija Mohorovičić, one of the founders of modern seismology, who identified the boundary between the Earth's crust and mantle. I had also studied Harry Fielding Reid’s elastic rebound theory, which explained how energy is released during earthquakes.

The 1920 Xalapa earthquake in Mexico had marked my first serious research into aftershocks. It was also the first time I used my own seismogram, created by a horizontal pendulum seismograph, to detect distant tremors.

One afternoon, while at the lab, I received a series of photographs from an anonymous source. Initially, they showed nothing more than typical scenes of rubble and destruction. But on closer inspection, I noticed something strange—what appeared to be gnarled, ghastly hands emerging from ruptured earth. I assumed they were human at first, but their long, clawlike fingernails and animal-like hair gave me pause.

Were these the actual images of unearthly creatures? Was it a trick of the eye—or a hoax? The photographs were disturbing, but I dismissed them, focusing instead on my scientific investigation of the earthquakes.

Then, more photographs arrived. This time, the bizarre images were clearer—again showing clawed hands emerging from the shattered earth. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to believe in creatures rising from underground. I was a scientist, after all—not someone who believed in monsters lurking in fault lines.

I searched for a logical explanation. There had to be one. Still, something deep inside me whispered otherwise.

A week later, I received a letter from a place called Abaddon, California, urgently requesting my assistance after a devastating earthquake killed nearly 50 people. It seemed linked to the others of that fateful year. Eight earthquakes in one year, all with the same bizarre photographic evidence—something monstrous reaching from the earth’s bowels.

The horror was only beginning.

When I arrived in Abaddon, dread overwhelmed me. The town was set among towering mountains—stunning in appearance but ominous in their silence. Most locals were trappers, hunters, or merchants. The forests were dense with conifer trees and teeming with wildcats, bears, and reptiles. Narrow valleys and deep canyons surrounded the region.

Destruction marked the town’s edges, though the central buildings remained intact. We were fortunate to land in a nearby area unaffected by the quake.

At the landing site, I met a professor named Jacob Weismann. He took me through the damage and introduced me to the townsfolk. I had brought my seismograph and seismogram to begin recording and analyzing the earthquake's behavior. I charted the epicenter and plotted its force across the region. These calculations were vital to understanding the quake’s reach and magnitude.

Professor Weismann warned me that an even stronger quake was likely coming. I agreed. My research on early 20th-century seismic activity suggested a pattern, one that was escalating.

As a seismologist, I knew how difficult it was to predict earthquakes. Their variability made forecasting nearly impossible. Yet, we carefully timed our observations to monitor the Earth’s interior vibrations, hoping to catch something that might prepare us.

The 1920 Xalapa quake taught me that some quakes occur along faults never before detected. Our data helped confirm that the mainshock had come from a shallow crustal rupture.

For clarity: a seismogram records the seismic waves from a quake, while a seismograph is the instrument that creates those records. Both are essential for any seismologist. Without them, meaningful research is impossible. Science pushes boundaries—but only if reality reveals itself.

Professor Weismann and I interviewed survivors willing to share their experiences. I sought factual, usable information. Earthquake survivors often recall events vividly, but emotions can color their accounts. Some embellish. Some confuse details. Sorting facts from fiction was part of my role.

California, located along the dangerous San Andreas Fault, has always been precarious. The miasma of despair was present in Abaddon—but curiously muted. The locals seemed almost prepared, as though they had long awaited something worse.

One man, a preacher, fueled rumors that the quake was divine punishment for humanity’s sins. He believed it was the Devil’s work. I did not. I was a man of logic, not superstition.

The preacher insisted the town’s name—Abaddon—proved divine wrath. In the Old Testament, Abaddon is the realm of the dead. In the New Testament, it is a name for Hell itself.

I let the preacher rant and returned to the lab with Weismann to attend to more pressing matters.

The professor had invited me to stay at his house during my visit to Abaddon, and I had accepted. At the time, I was uncertain how long I would remain in the town, but I was eager to monitor any aftershocks or witness the occurrence of another earthquake.

The professor and I had discussed at length the connection between this earthquake and others I had studied during the year 1925. We both agreed to remain present in case of any subsequent seismic activity.

Our mutual fascination with earthquakes had drawn us together in purpose. That evening, a strange fog of dust blanketed the entire town of Abaddon. It appeared to drift from the north and lingered until early morning. I was unsure whether this dust was a lingering effect of the quake or something entirely different. I collected a few particles for examination.

Professor Weismann noted that the dust seemed to originate near the old mines. Whether it was a result of contamination remained undetermined. My greater concern lay in the possibility of another quake causing significant damage to the region.

As a seismologist, I could not prevent earthquakes. My role was to study the genesis and propagation of seismic waves through the Earth’s crust. The next morning, I was jolted awake by one of several aftershocks. It shook my bed violently, but I was slowly becoming accustomed to their unpredictable nature.

That day, I focused on examining images of peculiar beings that had been photographed emerging from the ground. I attempted to magnify the photographs to better analyze their grotesque features. Still, I could not determine whether they depicted wild beasts or figments of a disturbed imagination.

If the hands shown in the images were indeed alien or teratoid in nature, the question remained—where had they come from? A week passed as aid arrived and reconstruction efforts began. I learned that the photographs had been taken by a local resident named John Williams. When I shared them with Professor Weismann, he concurred that the images defied clear interpretation.

The professor agreed to accompany me to Mr. Williams’ home. When we arrived, he was inside his studio. After we knocked, he answered the door with visible suspicion. He questioned our interest in the photographs, and I explained that I had previously encountered similar images of unknown creatures. At that, he allowed us inside to view his private collection.

Though he could not explain the nature of the images, he was curious to hear our thoughts. Upon further inspection, my conclusions remained inconclusive. It was unclear whether the forms captured were humanoid or bestial. Professor Weismann examined them closely and reached a similar impasse.

Mr. Williams believed that the creatures were unrelated to anything native to Abaddon. However, he mentioned an old legend that piqued my curiosity. According to the tale, Abaddon had once been a mining town known as El Dorado, named by the Spaniards in the 1840s. Lured by the promise of gold, many flocked to the region in search of quick fortune.

Although some profited, a curse allegedly befell the town. A massive earthquake buried the mines and claimed the lives of hundreds. The town was renamed Abaddon, a grim reminder of its catastrophic past.

The legend claimed that the quake had awakened demonic souls from Hell, which rose to torment the town's remaining inhabitants. Though implausible, the tale was chilling in its vividness. Whether these beings had truly emerged from the Earth or were merely folklore, it was unsettling to see such forms appearing in photographs.

Could these terrifying figures genuinely be linked to seismic events? It seemed absurd—yet not entirely dismissible. I recalled being told as a child that Hell was real. The thought that it might exist on Earth was a troubling notion shared by Professor Weismann.

There seemed to be an eerie connection between the strange images and the earthquakes. The quake in Abaddon had lasted several minutes. That evening, another aftershock rattled the town. While discussing seismic wave patterns with the professor, the tremor interrupted our thoughts.

Our conversation soon shifted back to the images. Several townsfolk we had spoken to that afternoon reported seeing strange hands emerging from the ground during the quake.

One local merchant, Mr. Bradley, claimed to have found a severed finger belonging to one of the creatures. It was impossible to say whether it was humanoid or animal. The professor noted it was covered in hair, but that alone was inconclusive.

The aftershocks became more frequent, though they caused only minor damage. Yet we feared they might precede a more powerful, devastating quake. The residents of Abaddon busied themselves clearing rubble and demolishing damaged buildings.

Surprisingly few had fled the town. Most who stayed were business owners trying to recover, though there was an unmistakable unease among them.

Professor Weismann accompanied me to one of the sites where one of the alleged creatures had emerged. At the location, I began my investigation. A large crater, roughly the size of a car, remained visible—an imprint of the earlier earthquake.

As I examined the area, I discovered a severed hand. It was no ordinary hand; it did not appear human. Professor Weismann could not classify it. The only local creatures it could resemble were a bear or wildcat, but the hand's features did not match.

We preserved the specimen and returned to the professor’s laboratory. Under the microscope, we ruled out any known animal species. The only definitive evidence we had were the photographs and the severed hand. We needed a living specimen to truly confirm our theories—but how could we obtain one?

Unknown to us, Abaddon stood on the brink of an even more catastrophic earthquake.

That day, we were visited by a preacher who once again warned of a coming quake, proclaiming it to be God’s judgment on our sinful souls. His predictions of doom were unwavering.

I could not decide if he was delusional or simply a fanatical zealot. His presence stirred in me the question of Hell's existence on Earth. I began reading from the Bible, the Torah, and the Koran, searching for any reference to such a place.

Though I found no concrete answers, the thought haunted me. We decided to investigate the abandoned gold mines, buried long ago by rubble. Perhaps there we would uncover the truth behind Abaddon’s shadowed past.

The mines were perched on a steep ridge above a ravine. We scanned the area for wildlife but found none. There was clear evidence that the mines had once been active. We remained cautious of old explosives, chemicals, and other dangers such as bats, snakes, and spiders.

The structures were unstable, making any excavation risky. I was no expert on gold mining, but I had read that veins of gold sometimes remained in abandoned shafts. I recalled tales of Mayan relics unearthed in old Mexican mines.

What we mostly found were mineral remnants—no gold. I speculated that the mine had been aligned with the fault line responsible for the quake. That would explain why Abaddon suffered such devastation.

Another aftershock struck—the final one before the major earthquake that would plunge the town into horror.

The looming catastrophe haunted my dreams. I relived the 1906 San Francisco earthquake I had survived as a boy—visions of fire, rubble, and death that I would never forget.

They were not fond memories to reminisce upon. I could not have foreseen what would transpire in Abaddon that fateful afternoon. Nothing could have prepared me for the inscrutable tragedy and horror that followed—the earthquake that destroyed the town of Abaddon.

On the morning of the earthquake, I spent time with Professor Weismann studying the aftershocks. There were none that day, nor was there anything that could have presaged the earthquake’s utter ruination. I had written a letter to a colleague back at the university, detailing my experiences with the aftershocks in Abaddon. I deliberately omitted the strange images found in the photographs, as they would only invite suspicion and confusion.

I did, however, mention the mines and their proximity to the fault line. It was unsettling to realize how fragile the earth was when deliberately disturbed. Even the locals of Abaddon still carried the memory of the San Francisco earthquake fresh in their minds. They were a superstitious people, deeply attached to the town's history. Many were direct descendants of the original settlers—miners and Spaniards alike.

They shared elaborate tales of Abaddon's ancestral past, weaving a rich tapestry of California's origins—Native American, Spanish, Mexican, and American. It was not uncommon to find such towns where beliefs lingered from centuries past. Still, I sensed that Abaddon harbored secrets—secrets better left undisturbed.

Precisely at one o’clock, the earthquake struck with sudden, deafening force. I was in the laboratory with Professor Weismann when the ground convulsed beneath us. Furniture toppled, instruments shattered. The violent tremors threw us to the floor.

When we regained our footing, we beheld buildings collapsed into heaps, and people running terrified through the streets. Chaos reigned as the earth roared. Then I saw them—shadowy forms rising from beneath the rubble, from a chasm torn open by the quake. First came their clawed hands, then grotesque bodies that slithered upward.

I could not comprehend their nature—nor the magnitude of their horror. They were monstrous, their eyes glowing a hellish crimson, their teeth like razors. They were sable-hued, towering, bipedal, and ravenous for human flesh. They were demonic ghouls.

One of the creatures entered the laboratory and seized Professor Weismann before I could act. In mere moments, it devoured him. There was nothing I could do—only flee, shaken and helpless. I stumbled into the street as the building behind me crumbled.

The town was consumed in carnage and dust. The beasts roamed with insatiable hunger. A woman and her child ran toward me, pleading for help. I hid the boy as the mother was snatched by one of the ghouls and torn apart before my eyes.

The earthquake did not relent, nor did the creatures. I carried the boy to the cellar of a merchant’s shop. The shopkeeper lay dead nearby, lifeless and twisted. We remained hidden until the tremors subsided and the ghouls, riding with the howling winds, seemed to vanish.

I heard their cries in the wind, and the fading screams of the townsfolk. The scene resembled the apocalyptic visions once described by a street preacher I had seen days before. I saw him again, standing with a Bible in hand, reciting prayers in the face of damnation. But even he was not spared. The creatures dragged him into the abyss, tearing him apart with grotesque glee.

Dust and fog cloaked the town, making it nearly impossible to see. Still, I tried. I heard the monstrous footsteps of the ghouls echoing on the stone streets, searching for survivors. Their breath steamed like vapor, leaving trails of heat and ash. From their bodies fell smoldering coals that burned into the earth like acid. No force could repel them. They had come for destruction.

Even the holy man was powerless. Whatever evil had been released was not of coincidence—it was deliberate, a summoning perhaps, or a reckoning. When the horror ended, the creatures returned to the depths. I emerged from the cellar, clutching the boy’s hand.

What remained was ruin—Abaddon was in pieces. The ghouls left behind no tangible proof, only devastation. I tried to shield the boy from the carnage, but there was no hiding what he had witnessed.

I left him in the care of the remaining townspeople. They would care for him better than I could. Shock and disbelief haunted their faces. No one could have imagined that this earthquake would be tenfold worse than the one that had devastated San Francisco.

Each tremor had roared like a wrathful god. And the demons—those ghastly ghouls—would not be forgotten. They left behind little in the way of physical evidence, but the memory of their carnage lingered like an ineffable curse.

The images I witnessed are seared into my mind. When I returned to the laboratory, I salvaged what equipment I could. Remarkably, my instruments survived. The structural damage was extensive, yet minor compared to the rest of the town.

Memories of San Francisco flooded back—but unlike that city, Abaddon was annihilated. What stood now were mere husks of buildings. The thought chilled me.

After leaving the boy with the surviving townspeople, I felt a strange pull toward the abandoned mine tunnels on the outskirts of Abaddon. Something within me told me I had to go—some instinct, perhaps, or some unseen force urging me into the depths of the earth. The entrance was half-collapsed, the remnants of a rockslide blocking much of the way. Still, I managed to crawl through the opening, my hands scraping against the rough stone. The air hit me with a musty scent of earth and sulfur, thick with the scent of years of abandonment. It was heavy and oppressive.

The deeper I descended, the more alien the place felt. The walls shimmered faintly, as if veins of glowing minerals were pulsing within the rock. They bathed the space in an eerie, blueish light. It was as if the mine were alive, breathing, exhaling the scent of death from some unseen mouth. The silence here was suffocating, but it was not a peaceful quiet—it was the kind of silence that presses against the ears, heavy and demanding attention.

I stepped carefully over bones, remnants of old miners long gone. The skeletal remains had been stripped clean of flesh, bleached by time. I had expected this, but what unnerved me was the unnatural order to their placement. They were not scattered randomly, as one might expect in a collapsed mine. No, they were arranged, each bone laid meticulously on the ground as though someone—or something—had made sure to place them just so. I shivered.

The deeper I went, the more unsettling the surroundings became. The walls began to narrow, pressing in on me. I could feel the weight of the earth above, the weight of an entire world suffocating in the dark. And then, as I rounded a corner, I saw it. A vast cavern stretched out before me, its center dominated by a gaping chasm that seemed to swallow all light.

I stepped cautiously toward the edge, my heart racing. From the depths of that black abyss, a faint hum rose, vibrating through my chest, unsettling in its resonance. It was almost like the sound of something... alive. I looked down but could see nothing. The darkness below seemed endless, stretching far beyond what I could comprehend.

In the center of the cavern stood a monolith. The stone was dark, almost obsidian, and it pulsed with that same strange energy I felt vibrating in my bones. I didn't dare move any closer. My instincts screamed at me to turn back, to leave this place and never return.

I should have listened.

I retreated quickly, stumbling backward toward the tunnel from which I had come. I could still hear that hum echoing in the cavern, growing louder as if something were stirring below. The air grew heavier as I moved, and I felt the distinct sensation that I was being watched, stalked by something that had no name.

I ran. I don’t know why I thought I could outrun it, but I ran, desperate to escape the feeling of the earth closing in around me.

It had been days since I had ventured into the mines. The memory of that place still lingered in my mind like a foul stench. But something else had started gnawing at me, pulling me toward the ruins of the old cathedral that lay in the heart of Abaddon. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt the need to see it, to examine the remnants of a place that once held hope—before it, too, was swallowed by whatever malevolent force had claimed the town.

The steeple had long since collapsed, crashing down across the graveyard. I stood at the entrance for a moment, looking at the jagged ruins of what had once been a towering symbol of faith. A faint wind stirred, lifting dust from the broken stones.

Inside, it was like stepping into a different world. The air was thick, laden with the smell of burned wood and old incense. Ash coated the pews, and the scent of decay lingered in the air. I moved deeper into the church, my footsteps echoing through the hollowed space. My gaze fell to the fresco above the altar—the image of angels descending from the heavens, bathed in light, their faces serene. Now, the fresco had melted, its colors running like blood, as though someone had dipped their fingers into it and dragged it down, as if to erase it from existence.

The grand altar, once ornate with gold and silver, was now little more than a jagged pile of charred wood and iron. Scattered among the remains were pages of prayer books, some whole, some shredded to pieces by fire or time. Others were burned beyond recognition. Yet, amidst the ruin, there was something almost sacred about it—like it still held something in its brokenness, something that would forever remain untouchable.

I moved closer to the altar, my hand reaching down to brush over the charred remnants of what had once been an ornate candlestick. It was only then that I noticed the floor—strewn with bone fragments. They were not animal bones, but human. The realization hit me with a cold wave. These were the bones of townsfolk who had once come to worship here, now discarded like so much refuse.

A faint breeze stirred, and I shivered. It wasn’t the natural wind that blew through the broken windows. No, this was something different—something unnatural. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, as though the very space around me was charged with a presence I could not explain.

I looked toward the back of the cathedral, where the shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally. The faintest movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention—a flicker of something. My heart skipped a beat, but when I turned to look, there was nothing. Only darkness.

Then, from the corner of my vision, I saw it again—movement. Not human, not animal, but something else entirely. I felt my pulse quicken, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I needed to leave.

But before I could turn to escape, the unmistakable sound of scraping stone filled the air. I froze, unable to move, unable to breathe.

A figure emerged from the shadows at the back of the cathedral—tall, cloaked in black, its face obscured. It moved slowly toward me, each step echoing like the tolling of a bell. The air grew colder still. I could feel my breath fogging in front of me as the figure approached.

I wanted to run. But my legs felt rooted to the floor, my body paralyzed by the horror that crawled up my spine. The figure stopped just before me, and for a brief moment, I thought I could see its eyes—glowing red, like embers from a dying fire.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished into the darkness.

I don’t know how long I stood there, frozen in place, until I finally forced my legs to move again. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. The cathedral had swallowed its secrets, and now, it seemed, the town itself was lost to whatever had claimed it.

I hadn’t realized how long I had been wandering, lost in the oppressive air of Abaddon. After leaving the ruined cathedral, I found myself drawn deeper into the forest that surrounded the outskirts of the town. It was as if the trees themselves had been waiting for me, their twisted forms looming like sentinels guarding the secrets of this forsaken place. The sun had long set, leaving only the pale light of the moon to guide me through the dense undergrowth. There was something unnervingly quiet about the forest, a silence that felt unnatural.

The further I ventured into the woods, the more the silence seemed to press in on me. My own footsteps sounded too loud, too intrusive. The air grew thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves, and yet, there was an undercurrent of something... other. A faint hum, like distant whispers, seemed to vibrate in the air, too soft to hear clearly but impossible to ignore. I couldn’t make out the words, but the sound lingered in my bones, stirring something deep within me.

I pulled my jacket tighter around my shoulders, a futile attempt to stave off the cold that had settled into my skin. The moonlight barely pierced the canopy above, leaving the forest floor shrouded in shadow. Every step seemed to carry me deeper into the unknown, further away from anything resembling safety.

The whispers grew louder, sharper now, and I instinctively quickened my pace, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I felt eyes on me, watching from the darkness between the trees, though every time I turned to look, there was nothing there—just the gnarled trunks of the trees, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands. The forest had become a labyrinth, and I was its prisoner.

It wasn’t long before I stumbled upon something... unexpected. A clearing. At first, it seemed almost too serene, too still. The trees parted, creating an open space where the moonlight flooded through, casting silver beams across the ground. In the center of the clearing stood a stone altar, covered in thick moss, its surface etched with strange symbols that seemed to twist and writhe when I looked at them. They were not human, not ancient, but something else—something older than time itself.

I couldn’t help but approach it. The pull was irresistible, like the altar was calling to me. As I drew closer, the whispers crescendoed into an unintelligible cacophony, and for a moment, I could almost hear them clearly, though I couldn’t make sense of the words. A chill ran down my spine.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the cool stone. The moment I touched it, a shock of energy coursed through me, like a surge of electricity, and the ground beneath my feet trembled. The whispers intensified, now almost a scream. My heart raced, and I tried to pull my hand away, but it was as if the stone had a hold on me, an invisible force keeping me there.

Then, in the blink of an eye, everything went still. The forest fell silent once more, the whispers fading into the distance. I was no longer alone.

Behind me, standing in the shadow of the trees, was a figure. Tall, cloaked, and shrouded in darkness, its form indistinct and fluid. I could feel its presence, like a cold weight pressing down on my chest. My breath caught in my throat. My legs wouldn’t move. It was as if my body had betrayed me, paralyzed by the sheer terror of the moment.

For what felt like an eternity, we stood there—me, trembling at the altar, and the figure, watching from the shadows. And then, without a word, it disappeared, fading into the forest as if it had never been there.

I stumbled back, the shock still coursing through my veins. The silence returned, and with it, the oppressive weight of the forest. I didn’t know how long I had been standing there, but I knew one thing for certain: something had changed. Something had awakened in the darkness, something ancient, something I was not meant to understand.

I turned and fled, not daring to look back.

As the days passed, the town of Abaddon seemed to consume me, as I was in San Francisco. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was alive in some way, pulsing with an energy that was both seductive and dangerous. The more I explored, the more I uncovered fragments of a past that seemed both distant and immediate, as if time itself had fractured within this place.

One evening, I decided to lreturn to the town and head toward the old village square. Perhaps there, amid the crumbling buildings and empty streets, I could find some trace of what had happened to the people of Abaddon. The square had once been the heart of the town—alive with market stalls, children running through the streets, the sound of laughter and life. Now, it was nothing more than a desolate wasteland, the remnants of a forgotten time.

I moved cautiously, stepping over the cracked cobblestones, each one etched with the scars of years gone by. The buildings loomed like decaying sentinels, their once-grand facades now nothing more than hollow shells. The windows were shattered, their glass long gone, and the doors hung ajar, creaking in the wind as though inviting me to enter.

The air here was thick, heavy with the scent of rot and decay, and yet, there was something strangely empty about it—something that felt wrong in its absence. There were no sounds, no birdsong, no animals skittering in the underbrush. It was as if the town itself had been drained of life, and what remained was little more than a hollow echo of what had once been.

I paused in the center of the square, the weight of the silence pressing on me. The wind stirred, lifting the scraps of paper and debris scattered across the ground. Among the rubble, I found a piece of cloth, torn and faded, but unmistakably familiar. It was a fragment of the same fabric that had adorned the robes of the town’s clergy. The sight of it sent a chill down my spine. What had happened to them? Where had they gone?

As I looked around, something caught my eye. A small chapel stood at the far end of the square, its once-pristine walls now blackened by smoke, the roof caved in as though it had been struck by some great force. The doors, however, remained intact. Curiosity got the better of me, and despite the gnawing feeling in my gut, I made my way toward it.

Inside, the air was musty and thick with the scent of burned incense. The pews had been overturned, scattered across the floor like the remnants of some chaotic event. I stepped carefully, avoiding the debris, until I reached the altar. The once-gleaming golden chalice had been shattered, its pieces scattered across the stone.

But what struck me most was the mark on the altar. A symbol, carved deep into the stone, that seemed to pulse with an unsettling energy. It was not the symbol of any deity or religion I recognized. Instead, it was something far older, far more dangerous.

I stepped back, my heart racing. This place was a tomb—of the town, of its people, of its very soul. Something had happened here. Something that had torn the fabric of reality itself, leaving only the ghosts of those who had lived and died in Abaddon.

I didn’t want to stay here any longer. The weight of the place, the oppressive atmosphere, was too much to bear. But as I turned to leave, I felt a sudden pressure on my chest, as though something unseen had wrapped itself around me. My breath caught in my throat, and I struggled to move, to breathe, but it was as though the very air had become thick, unyielding.

The whispers returned, louder now, filling my mind with incomprehensible words. I fought against the sensation, trying to break free, but the more I struggled, the tighter the grip seemed to become.

And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pressure lifted. The whispers faded, and the weight was gone.

I stumbled out of the chapel, gasping for air, the overwhelming sense of something not right gnawing at my sanity. I had to get out of here. Whatever had claimed Abaddon, whatever had twisted it into this place of nightmares, was still here, still watching. And it wasn’t finished yet. From the corner of my eye, I saw what I had believed was a disfigured hand reaching out from the ground. Had the ghouls returned, or was it all in my imagination?

I had seen enough to know what destroyed Abaddon. The newspapers reported the disaster, but not the true horror. Who would believe such tales of unsightly ghouls?

I withheld the truth. The full account I would keep to myself, to reveal only at my discretion. Curiously, the photographs and notes I took of the demonic entities vanished—erased, perhaps, by the same unnatural force that had unleashed them.

Years passed. I tried to make sense of it all, but one truth remains: it was no ordinary earthquake that doomed Abaddon. It was an unnatural phenomenon—terrifying in its scope, and merciless in its finality.

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