The Twister

I have heard tales of the old ones, who came from the darkness between the stars and ruled before the concept of light could even be understood, and died long before man took its first steps. I know of their worshippers who, even to this day, devise ritual after ritual to give strength to their lost gods, to bring them back. I know of their minions, who still cling to the shadows, stroking the madness that lies at the edge of our collective unconsciousness.

But the Twister is not one of them.

I have heard of the gods, who were there when humanity took its first steps. Tall and proud, these dieties proved that gods were as fallable as the humanity they served, as impractical and unpredictable. They threw mountains, waged war, and committed terrible acts of genocide, and their subjects worshipped, feared, and mocked them. They were driven into the nothingness by the stubbornness of mankind, which insisted that gods had to be beyond understanding, beyond fallability. Some of them still lurk among mankind, with a fraction of their power and almost no followers. They wait for the day when they will be needed again, when humanity will need them. That day may never come.

But the Twister is not one of them either.

I'm not sure what he is, really. Even as I sit in his lair. He is almost human, ten feet tall and skeletal. He is wearing a suit, though I have no idea why, and he avoids eye contact. He has long black hair and wears a talk thin wrinkled hat over it. He seems to have fallen straight from the eighteenth century, though I know he was around before then. There are rumors about him that come from the roman times, stories that attempt to make him into something understandable. They attempted to make him a god, or a demon, but he is neither. He's something greater than the dieties, and something less than the old ones. And he's sitting across from, looking nervous.

"I need your help," he finally says. His voice is harsh, ancient. He draws the words out, hissing and grunting. I don't know what I'm supposed to say, so I say nothing. He stares off into the shadows, shifts, and gives me a quick glance. "I have heard you know of the dreams."

The dreams. It's an ominous declaration, to be sure. Several of my patients had mentioned them six months back. Each dream was unique, but they were connected. Elements seemed to coexist in the subconsciousness of my patients. Of course, they couldn't see it. They hadn't been told the same tale six times from different points of view.

It starts with a series of flashes, every where in the night sky. The stars exploding one by one, or just explosions. Then streaks of falling light, as if the heavens were burning and falling to earth. Then the darkness. Heavy breathing, and a man with a guitar walking down the street. The buildings around him are turning to ash, and people are jumping out of the windows to avoid turning to ash as well. Behind the man, more darkness, and things creeping and crawling, clicking and growling. The ash covers the globe, reducing the green to gray. And then golden birds fall down to the earth. They land on this barren world and they are pleased.

I had written a paper on it, which my colleagues didn't believe. Looking at the Twister, I had the odd feeling that he did.

"Are you dreaming as well?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No. No." He coughed deeply, bending over in his chair, then stared at me for the first time. His eyes were black, swollen. "I'm dying."