Azagon

On a mild day in September of 1918, I left for Brunswich, a quiet town in New England, whose peaceful nature promised a refreshing change. My name is Cornelius Hainsworth, and I had been sent by Silversmith Enterprise to purchase a particular property overlooking the ocean. Although I rarely had the luxury of leisure time in bustling Boston, I welcomed the thought of this tranquil task. My life had grown accustomed to the constant chatter and clamor of Bostonians, but now, I longed for something quieter, more remote.

The weather was oddly inclement as I neared Brunswich—a thick, stubborn fog hung over the town, as though reluctant to dissipate. The atmosphere felt heavy, laden with moisture. I was eager to arrive, but upon reaching the town, I found myself cloaked in fog that obscured my first view of the vast, imposing Atlantic. The town itself was serene, yet eerily quiet, with only the faint rustle of nature disturbing the stillness.

At last, I reached my destination—the Earnshaw Inn, which bore a simple sign above its door, an unassuming banner that gave no hint of the strange air surrounding it. There was an unsettling calm to the place, a tranquility that bordered on the unnatural. As I entered the inn, the fog began to lift, and the town came into view, revealing its quaint streets. Though charming, they felt strangely out of place compared to the world I had left behind.

The faces of the townspeople were all smiles—unwavering, cheerful smiles. It was a stark contrast to the apathy I was used to in Boston, and though it was refreshing, it was also unsettling. These were smiles that didn’t seem entirely natural, as though everyone had rehearsed the same expression. I couldn’t quite place the source of my discomfort, but it lingered, a subtle but persistent feeling that something was wrong.

My luggage was quickly unloaded, and I was greeted by the innkeeper, whose hospitality seemed almost too warm, as if he were expecting me. A sudden gust of wind swept through the door as I entered, a strange occurrence in an otherwise still town. I had expected the usual bustle of a seaside village—the clamor of waves and gulls—but instead, there was a quiet here, a stillness that felt almost deliberate.

The innkeeper’s hospitality, while kind, did little to dispel the oddness of my surroundings. When I mentioned my visit to see Mr. Appleton, he revealed that the gentleman had left the town for good. According to the innkeeper, Mr. Appleton had sailed to England, his homeland. The news struck me as strange, yet the innkeeper pointed me toward Mr. Appleton’s former residence, offering directions to a house that seemed isolated, almost forgotten. It was as if the town, with all its peculiar charm, was trying to push me toward a mystery I wasn’t prepared to solve.

I followed the innkeeper’s directions and soon found myself standing at the doorstep of the abandoned house. I knocked, and a woman answered. She, too, told me that Mr. Appleton had left, her words smooth and deliberate, but something in her tone felt off. The oddity of it all gnawed at me, but I dismissed it as mere intuition. After all, there was no solid evidence to suggest anything other than the truth of her words.

Once again, I was struck by the strange smiles of the townspeople, their unwavering expressions of goodwill. It was as if they were all in on some secret, one that I wasn’t privy to. As I turned away from the house, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, that I wasn’t as inconspicuous as I had hoped to be.

I returned to the inn for lunch, pondering my next steps. It was there that I first encountered Mrs. Breckenridge, a woman whose pleasant demeanor was almost too perfect. She was of average height, with fair features and a voice that had a soft, melodious quality. She was perceptive, immediately recognizing my Bostonian accent, and seemed to know much more about me than I had expected.

She revealed that she had been the last to see Mr. Appleton before his departure, and I was intrigued by her familiarity with the man. When I mentioned my business with him, she seemed already aware of my purpose. There was an odd familiarity in her words, as though she had known this conversation would take place.

I tried to push my growing unease to the back of my mind, but the questions piled up, each more curious than the last. She spoke of Mr. Appleton’s “brethren” with a calm reverence that left me unsettled. I pressed her for clarification, but she simply repeated the term, offering no explanation beyond the word itself. The conversation took a strange turn when I asked about the town hall, the place where she had last seen Mr. Appleton.

When I inquired further about its location, she pointed to an ancient church on the outskirts of town—a church built by Puritans in 1681. It was a place I had passed earlier, but had given little thought to. Now, as she spoke of it, I felt an inexplicable pull toward it, as though the building held some vital piece of the puzzle. But what was the puzzle? And why did it feel as though I were being led, step by step, into its heart?

What I found odd was the fact that Mrs. Breckenridge was taciturn when describing herself. It wasn’t the typical response one might expect, especially in the anodyne setting of a public square, where conversation was abundant. This, however, was not the case. The people around us spoke little, and it seemed as though they were listening to our intimate conversation with keen interest. I began to feel uncomfortable as we spoke, and I told her that I was heading back to my room at the inn. Perhaps she had sensed my agitation.

There was an inanimate clock tower in the middle of the square that caught my attention, and I stood there, gazing at it for a moment, puzzled. Mrs. Breckenridge noticed me standing and said something very strange. Her words were concise, yet daunting.

She spoke the word “Azagon,” and it was unfamiliar to me. When I asked her to repeat it, she did so with conviction and emphasis. The word “Azagon” seemed to illuminate her face, as if it carried some kind of celestial glee. The pronunciation was stressed on the beginning of the name.

I had intended to return to my room at the inn, but then I made a unique realization. There were no children in Brunswich. This, beyond the oddities I had already witnessed, was troubling. Where were the children? Were they sleeping? Were they at home? Were they away?

I had come to Brunswich to purchase property from an individual named Mr. Wentworth Appleton, who had mysteriously disappeared. I had pondered all plausible possibilities, yet there was one I had failed to consider: the possibility of his death. I hadn’t allowed myself to entertain that thought until now.

If I were to consider that Mr. Appleton had been murdered, then I would need to consider who the murderer might be. But I was no detective, and this wasn’t a task I intended to undertake lightly. The church bells rang, and all the people of Brunswich stopped what they were doing and headed toward the church to worship. Mrs. Breckenridge immediately made her way there as well, but before she left, she warned me that if I didn’t go to the church to worship, there would be dire consequences. She assured me that, because I was an outsider, I would be forgiven the first time, but not the second.

When I asked what denomination the church belonged to, she delivered a startling revelation. She repeated the word “Azagon” over and over. Who was Azagon, I wondered. When I asked her, she still failed to clarify what it meant. The only thing she said was that Azagon was the deity who imbued the constitution of the soul. She also mentioned that carnival was approaching. What did she mean by that? I had no intention of entering the church, as I was a man of my own will.

I visited an old library, where the air was thick with dust. The shelves, filled with ancient tomes, loomed over me, their weight oppressive. I had followed the clues here, believing that this place—the one hidden at the edge of town—held the key to understanding Azagon, to undoing whatever curse had befallen Brunswich. But now that I was here, surrounded by the remnants of a forgotten world, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was digging too deep.

Something watched me.

I couldn’t see it, but I felt it, a weight on my chest, an invisible presence closing in from all sides. My hand shook as I reached for an old book from the shelf, the binding cracked and fragile. As soon as I touched it, the whispers began.

The voices weren’t coming from the books. They were coming from the walls. From the floor. From the very air around me.

"Leave... before it's too late..."

I pulled my hand back, but the book fell from my fingers, and the whispering grew louder. The words bled into each other, the syllables twisting and distorting until they became a single, guttural roar.

"Knowledge has a price. The cost is more than you think."

I turned, eyes wide, searching for any sign of where the voices were coming from. But the library was still. The shelves, the books, the very stones of the building—all of them seemed to pulse with a dark energy, like the heart of the town itself was beating through them.

The air grew colder. A chill ran down my spine as I realized it wasn’t just the atmosphere that had shifted—it was the walls, the very foundation of this place. The library was no longer a library. It was a tomb.

I turned again, and this time, the figure was standing there.

It was tall, too tall, draped in robes that seemed to shift and ripple like smoke. I could barely make out its features, but the thing’s eyes—they were endless voids, sucking in the light around it, drowning me in darkness.

"You shouldn’t have come," it rasped, its voice low and gravelly, like stone scraping against stone. "You’ve opened the door. And now the price must be paid."

I tried to move, but my body felt like it was made of stone, my legs unresponsive. The thing took a step forward, and with it, the air seemed to freeze.

It reached out a hand. Not to touch me—no, it wasn’t a gesture of kindness. It was something far worse.

"It is too late."

I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t breathe. The fear was consuming me.

I had been in Azagon enough to know something mysterious was occurring. The mystery was no longer just connected to stories—it was a real, terrifying presence. As I wandered the town square, I heard a distant voice calling out.

At first, I thought it was the wind, or perhaps a trick of my mind. But the voice was persistent, clear as day, cutting through the thick mist that clung to the town. It was a woman’s voice, soft and melodic, but there was something wrong with it. A hollow resonance, like it was coming from beneath the surface of the water.

I had to go. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the voice was calling to me. So, against my better judgment, I left the safety of the town’s few open shops and followed the sound.

The path leading to the water was narrow, lined with sickly trees whose branches seemed to twist toward the ground, as if the life had been drained from them. The mist thickened as I approached the water’s edge, and the air grew colder, the ground beneath my feet becoming slick with mud.

The voice called again, a long, drawn-out lament.

“Help me…come closer…”

I stood on the shore, staring into the blackness of the water. Nothing moved. No ripples, no swirls of water to indicate that anything had disturbed the stillness.

"Who’s there?" I called out, my voice trembling despite myself.

The voice responded immediately, louder this time, more insistent. "I need you…come to me…"

I couldn’t explain why, but I felt compelled to step forward. My feet sank slightly into the wet ground, and with each step, the voice grew louder, more urgent. But just as I was about to wade into the water, a hand shot out from behind me, pulling me back with a force that nearly broke my ribs.

“You fool,” the old man growled, his grip tight on my arm. “It’s not a woman’s voice you hear. It's the call of the Grindylows. They lure you in, and then they drag you under.”

I turned to face him, my heart still racing. He was hunched, his face weathered and creased from years of hardship, but his eyes were sharp and knowing.

“The Grindylows have been taking people for generations,” he continued, his voice low. “No one who hears their voice ever returns. You’re lucky I found you.”

I glanced back at the water, and for a moment, I thought I saw something move beneath the surface. Something watching me.

But the voice was gone now.

Back in my room, I stared out the window, trying to see what was happening in the streets of Brunswich, but there was hardly any movement. The inhabitants appeared as mechanical automatons in a mundane reality, their lives revolving around providence and their church, the focal points of their existence.

Night fell, and I lay quietly in bed, when a sonorous clang from the clock tower suddenly woke me. The heavy metallic sound echoed, deafening my ears and drowning out everything else.

I rose to investigate the strange noise, and what I saw was a disturbing and shocking sight. Outside, the townspeople were frolicking in a bacchanalian revelry, their behavior in stark contrast to the quietude of the town. They wore black visard masks and were dressed in 18th-century clothing. This stark contradiction to their usual conduct was ineffable.

What was unfolding before me was incredulous and surreal, but what happened next was even more captivating. I stepped outside, and as I did, the people ceased their revelry and turned their eyes upon me, their gazes cold and calculating. They sensed that I was different, that I was an outsider, not imbued with the constitution of the soul like they were. I was a clear disturbance in their world, a harbinger of chaos and insurrection.

I could feel their hostile enmity. How could this be, I wondered, when they had been peaceful and passive in conduct just moments ago? I thought of fleeing, but where could I run? I was a stranger in this town. I stood my ground as the townspeople approached. One of them boldly asked me why I had not heeded the call to worship Azagon at the designated hour, as the devoted citizens of Brunswich had.

I still did not understand the reverence they held for this Azagon. I asked them if they weren’t Christians, like most of the people in New England. Apparently, they were not. They called me a blasphemer. Among the crowd, I recognized the voice and presence of Mrs. Breckenridge, and I called to her, but she was one of them now. What could I say? I was at the mercy of their perversity.

Gradually, I began to back away toward my automobile, which was parked near the inn. As I walked, I saw the townspeople start to change their appearances. They removed their visards, and their eyes had taken on a strange citrine hue, inhuman and unnatural. They shed their clothing and revealed bodies that were half mammalian, half amphibian—long, narrow claws and swinging tails. Their once human forms had turned a pale green, covered in thick, tangled hair.

I recoiled in terror and disbelief. The scene before me was beyond anything I could comprehend. Hesitation gripped me, but my intuition urged me to flee. I rushed to my automobile, but was stopped by the old innkeeper, who had also transformed into a monstrous being. It seemed that escape was no longer an option, and death at the hands of these abominable creatures was inevitable.

Just as I felt surrounded, a mysterious figure appeared from behind me. He was my unexpected savior. He shoved me into the automobile, and we managed to escape the seemingly inescapable grasp of Azagon. I was shaken, unsure of what had just transpired, and there was no logical explanation that could adequately account for the horrifying events that had unfolded.

The man introduced himself as Mr. Appleton. Yes—Mr. Wentworth Appleton, the same man who had supposedly disappeared, or had returned to England. He was driving my car along a narrow road that led to his home, deep in the forest. I immediately asked him what was happening in Brunswich, what was this “Azagon” that the townspeople worshipped with such blind devotion.

Mr. Appleton began to explain the untold truth, but his story was so unbelievable that I could scarcely comprehend it. According to him, the townspeople were under the gorgonizing control of Azagon, an alien deity who had arrived in Brunswich as a pagan entity. His influence had quickly taken hold, establishing dominion over the inhabitants.

They became his followers and faithful disciples. The Puritan church in the town had been sequestered by Azagon. When I inquired about this deity and his origin, Mr. Appleton told me the full story of Azagon. He explained that Azagon hailed from beyond the ocean, and the most alarming part was that he was not human, but preternatural. Anyone who did not possess the soul imbued by Azagon had either vanished or was speculated to be dead. Thus, the only mortal survivor of Brunswich was Mr. Appleton, a resilient man.

From what I understood, Mr. Appleton had survived Azagon’s reign because he was a descendant of Hamish Appleton, the original pastor of the Puritan Church of the 17th century, which Azagon had seized. I was familiar with Puritan history in New England. In the past, Azagon had been confronted by Mr. Appleton’s ancestor, who, in the 17th century, had tried to resist Azagon’s control over the minds and wills of the people.

When I asked about the absence of children in Brunswich, Mr. Appleton revealed a despicable truth: the children had been sacrificed to Azagon as neonates. It was imperative that we end this madness and terror once and for all.

Our mission was clear: we had to destroy Azagon. But how? That question lingered as an insoluble mystery. Mr. Appleton believed the key to defeating Azagon lay within the church. Whatever power Azagon wielded was rooted in the foundation of that church. This was his conjecture, and our best option.

We stopped at his home to prepare for the inevitable confrontation with Azagon—the avatar of inherent evil. The Puritan belief was that somatasthenia, the fragility of the body, was a pathway to the soul, which Azagon yearned to possess. Those who had made pacts with him formed what was known as a sanguinary covenant.

Every neonate born in Brunswich had been offered as a ceremonial sacrifice to Azagon every fortnight. The Puritan fears had stoked a frenzy of witchcraft throughout New England. Azagon, the infernal embodiment of the Grim Reaper, loomed over the town with a minatory presence.

That night, we stayed by the port in Mr. Appleton’s boat. He explained that the unnatural beings we had seen in town were the true residents, who appeared placid during the day. He called them "Grindylows," creatures that were part land, part water. The threat they posed was real, as was the looming presence of Azagon. The innkeeper, it turned out, was the first epigone of this nefarious villain.

I did not understand fully how Azagon controlled or deceived the minds of the townspeople, but it was likely through a strict form of commination—an overwhelming force that shattered their fragile fortitude, often without them realizing. The enormity of saving Brunswich meant we would not only confront Azagon, but the 360 souls he controlled through fear and subversion.

We did not encounter the corrupted townspeople again that night, but we knew they were waiting for an opportunity to strike. Mr. Appleton devised a plan, and we were committed to executing it to perfection using chronomancy. There was no thought of escape; we had to destroy Azagon.

At dawn, we set out by automobile toward the heart of the town, knowing the townspeople would be aware of our intentions. We took the isolated road I had once traveled to reach Mr. Appleton’s home. There was no need to avoid it, as he had told me the townspeople had likely already anticipated our move.

A brisk wind blew, and the familiar cries of seagulls echoed from the distant shore. I couldn’t shake the feeling of apprehension as the ocean mist crept in again. It seemed another ominous sign, one I feared would not bode well.

Once we entered town, the townspeople appeared as normal—engaged in their daily routines. This no longer bewildered me, for I knew who they were, and who they served—these deviated thralls.

Mr. Appleton suggested we go to the church while the townspeople were occupied. We faced no immediate resistance, passing through the square and reaching the Puritan church. I could see its apse clearly now. We left the automobile and entered through the back door, where we encountered one of the townspeople, who asked if we were of the soul imbued.

We had to act normal, hiding any signs of hostility. They knew our intentions, but Mr. Appleton quickly interjected, claiming that we were of the soul imbued and had come to worship Azagon. He was convincing enough to pass without suspicion, though the worship hour was not yet upon us.

It was the first time I had entered the church, and its atmosphere was awe-striking—but not for social reasons. The church had become twisted, overtaken by thorny vines since Azagon’s arrival. The smell of decaying seaweed permeated the air, and the once venerable Christian images had been replaced by grotesque, geometric eyes—triangular and rhombicuboctahedral in shape.

We didn’t have much time before the worship hour arrived, and we needed to locate the source of Azagon’s power. Mr. Appleton suggested the pulpit, but as we neared it, we began hearing the wailing of voices—a cacophony from the ocean. It was the souls of the children, trapped beneath the waves.

As we attempted to destroy the pulpit, the tower clock struck. The vibrations shook us, and I realized we were too late. The townspeople were on their way. We locked the doors, but the pounding on the church’s entrance grew louder.

We were now trapped, and Azagon’s presence was closing in. Mr. Appleton remembered that Azagon had to be summoned—how, though? The answer came to him: the tower clock.

“If we destroy the clock,” Mr. Appleton said, “Azagon will have to appear. It will destabilize the routine that controls the town.”

One of us would have to stay behind while the other attempted to disable the clock. I volunteered to go. I escaped through the rear window and ran toward the tower. Climbing the staircase, I could see the mechanical mechanism that operated the clock. But as I tried to reach it, I was spotted by the residents, who sought to stop me.

When I tried again, it was too late. The townspeople captured me before I could reach the clock. As the clock’s thunderous chimes rang out, the vibrations sent me crashing to the ground. The sound was deafening, and blood poured from our ears as the storm grew fiercer.

And then, Azagon appeared.

A towering leviathan of tentacles and three heads, his appearance was unspeakably terrifying—an extraterrestrial nightmare of unimaginable size and power. The Grindylows, now monstrous in form, shot through the church roof in a tidal wave of force, transformed into creatures of pure malice. They were no longer human, their wicked pallor glowing beneath their evil eyes.

What I hadn’t known was that the children’s souls, long trapped beneath the sea, had risen in vengeance. The wailing of their souls reverberated, causing the Grindylows to shiver in terror. The storm raged on as the children’s voices grew louder, and soon, even Azagon, once an omnipotent deity, was overcome by the deafening sound.

The storm devastated the town, and Azagon was reduced to a shriveled, ancient figure, his power gone. The children’s spirits claimed him, dragging the fallen deity to the abyss of the ocean.

Brunswich crumbled into the sea, consumed by the eternal depths. The children who had not yet been sacrificed were still alive. I took them with me, escaping in Mr. Appleton’s boat. The shadows of the children watched from the last remaining patch of Brunswich, as the town was swallowed by the ocean’s blackened waters.

It’s been weeks since I left Azagon, but some nights, when the world falls quiet and I’m alone with my thoughts, I still feel the weight of that place pressing down on me. It’s as if the town etched itself into my bones, leaving behind scars no one can see.

I remember the morning I finally escaped. The fog had lifted just enough to let a weak sun pierce through, casting pale light on the ruin of what was left. Azagon had emptied overnight. Doors swung on broken hinges; windows stood open like hollow eyes. There were no bodies, no signs of struggle—only absence. It was as though the town itself had been erased, swallowed whole by whatever darkness had lived beneath its surface all along.

The Grindylows were gone too—or at least, hidden again. I didn’t dare to look for them. I kept my eyes straight ahead, moving as fast as my legs would carry me, until the water was behind me and the air began to feel lighter, freer. Even then, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following me, some shadow just out of sight.

I’ve tried to make sense of it all. I’ve pieced together fragments of conversations I had with the townsfolk—the fear in their eyes when they spoke of the marsh, the warnings whispered late at night when they thought no one was listening. I keep coming back to one thing the old man said, the one who saved me from the water’s edge:

“They’re part of this place. Always have been. Always will be.”

It haunts me because I know it’s true. Azagon and the Grindylows are inseparable, bound together by something deeper than myth or superstition. And though I left, though my feet now stand on solid, dry ground, I’m not free of them. Not really.

Sometimes, late at night, I dream of Azagon. I see the still, black water stretching out endlessly before me. I hear the soft, wet sound of something moving beneath the surface, and then—a voice. Always the voice. Calling, coaxing, pulling. Then I see him rise from the depth of the ocean.

And I wake with my heart pounding, my throat raw from a scream I never heard myself make.

I haven’t spoken much about what happened in Azagon. Who would believe me? To most people, it’s just another nameless village, forgotten by time and buried in the mist. But I know the truth. I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it in my skin, my bones, my soul.

And so, I write it down. Not because I think it will change anything, but because I need someone—anyone—to understand what I went through. What I survived.

There are days when I convince myself it’s over, that Azagon and its horrors are behind me. But then the fog rolls in thick and heavy, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I swear I can smell the marsh, damp and rotting. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see a shadow slithering toward me, eyes like pits, mouth stretched in that awful, knowing grin.

It’s never there. Not yet.

But I know better than to believe it’s truly gone.

Azagon waits. The Grindylows wait.

And one day—when I’m weakest, when I’ve let my guard down—they’ll call me home again.

Until then, I live with the silence they left behind.

And hope it stays silent just a little while longer.

Word of Azagon’s terror had seeped beyond the riverbanks of towns, curling through the valleys and alleys of nearby towns like a sickness no one dared name aloud. I traveled to Rook’s Hollow, a fishing settlement known for its stoicism, but even there, fear had cracked the locals’ resolve.

I sat in a dim-lit room of the Seafarer’s Inn, the fire snapping as a fisherman spoke. His hands trembled despite his hard, sea-roughened skin. “We saw it last week,” he said, voice hoarse. “It came out of the fog, towering... too tall to be a man, too wrong to be any beast we know. Long limbs, dragging across the water, eyes... burning like coals. I’ve lived fifty years here. Never seen nothing like it.”

The others nodded grimly. A woman at the far table, wrapped in a thick shawl, muttered, “My brother’s boy swears it stood at the edge of the fields. Watched him. Didn’t move. Just... watched. Next day, the livestock were gone. Not a trace but the mud—those claw marks, deep and wide like ruts in the earth.”

Another man leaned in, his voice nearly a whisper. “We’ve heard the screaming too. Out in the woods, just after sunset. Like it’s dragging something, or someone. And the river—it’s wrong. Tides all twisted, fish dead on the banks. My wife won’t let the kids out after dark anymore.”

I listened, each word adding weight to my growing dread. These were not isolated incidents. Azagon had slithered its way into their nightmares, just as it had ours. The creature’s reach was spreading—its hunger, insatiable.

A traveling merchant, nursing a cup of cold tea, finally spoke, eyes hollow. “In Brindle’s Moor, they’ve started lighting fires at night, trying to keep it at bay. But I saw it—far off, across the fields. Huge. Moving slow, like it wasn’t in a rush. Like it knew it had time. And the worst part? The quiet that followed. No birds. No crickets. Nothing. Just... silence. Like the world was holding its breath.”

I stayed late, listening to their broken stories, weaving together the terrible picture piece by piece. Each town had its own tale, but the threads were the same: the hulking figure, the red eyes, the dragging claws, the suffocating quiet that trailed it.

Azagon wasn’t just ours to bear anymore.

As I left the inn that night, stepping into the thick, starless dark, I felt it—the prickle at the back of my neck, the heavy, waiting stillness. And I knew, with a certainty that made my blood run cold: Azagon was still out there. Watching. Hunting. And soon, it would come again.

I walked alone back toward the edge of town, the stories circling in my mind like vultures. Each step seemed swallowed by the darkness, the silence pressing in tight. Somewhere beyond the hills and twisted trees, Azagon was moving—patient, relentless. And as the first cold gust of wind brushed past me, carrying with it the faintest, foulest whisper of decay, I realized: no matter how far we ran, no matter how bravely we resisted, Azagon’s shadow was already inside us all.

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