I wrote this metaphor for David, my close, dear friend for many years. May he rest in peace. March 3rd, 2025 /Gabriel Jeroschewitz. 

The house

 Stood on a promontory overlooking the churning Pacific, a stark silhouette against the perpetually bruised sky. It wasn’t just old; it felt ancient, imbued with a weight that pressed down on the soul. Locals whispered stories, half-truths and anxieties woven into tales of madness and despair that had clung to the property for generations. I, a detached observer, was drawn to it, not out of morbid curiosity. Still, something akin to a perverse fascination with the human capacity for self-destruction, a spectacle played out against the grand theater of existence.

The new owner, a reclusive artist named Alistair Finch, had arrived to find inspiration within its timeworn walls. He was obsessed with liminal spaces, where the veil between realities seemed thin. Like the mystics and quantum physicists, he believed that reality was a malleable construct shaped by consciousness and that the house was a nexus point. In this place, past and present energies converged with unnerving intensity.

Finch threw himself into the project with a fervor that bordered on mania. He spent his days wandering its labyrinthine corridors and his nights huddled over sketchbooks, his face illuminated by flickering candlelight. He spoke of whispers in the walls, shadows that danced beyond his peripheral vision, and sights and sounds that defied rational explanation. Others might have fled in terror, but Finch reveled in it, seeing it as proof of his theories and validation of his belief that the house was a crucible for the soul.

At first, his art reflected this newfound inspiration. His canvases were vibrant, chaotic expressions of raw emotion, pulsating with a life force that both captivated and disturbed. Critics hailed him as a visionary, a genius unbound by the constraints of conventional thinking. But as time wore on, a subtle shift began to occur. His paintings grew darker, more unsettling. The vibrant colours faded, replaced by shades of black and grey, and the swirling forms coalesced into grotesque figures, distorted and terrifying.

I observed from a distance, a silent witness to Finch’s descent. I saw him become increasingly isolated, consumed by his work, his eyes hollow, his face gaunt. He stopped answering my calls, and when I occasionally caught a glimpse of him through the grimy windows of the house, he appeared to be conversing with someone—or something—unseen.

I ventured closer one night, drawn by an inexplicable sense of dread. The house exuded an aura of palpable unease, the air thick with a chilling silence that seemed to stifle sound. The only light emanated from a single window on the top floor, casting long, skeletal shadows across the overgrown lawn. Hesitantly, I approached the front door, its wood warped and rotting, and pushed it open.

The interior was a chaotic tableau of decay and neglect. Dust motes danced in the moonlight filtering through the cracked windows, illuminating cobwebs that hung like macabre draperies. The air was heavy with the scent of mildew and something else, something acrid and vaguely metallic that made my stomach churn. I called out Finch’s name, swallowed by the oppressive silence.

Driven by a growing sense of urgency, I ascended the creaking staircase, each step a deafening echo in the stillness. As I neared the top floor, a low, guttural chanting reached my ears, its cadence hypnotic and disturbing. A wave of nausea washed over me, and I paused, momentarily paralyzed by a primal fear.

Gathering my courage, I continued onward, reaching the door to the room where the light still burned. It was slightly ajar, and I peered inside. What I saw in that room forever altered my perception of reality, shattering the carefully constructed edifice of my rational mind.

Finch stood before an easel, his back to me, his body swaying rhythmically. He was naked, his skin pale and clammy, and his head was shaved. The chanting emanated from his lips, a language I didn’t recognize but somehow understood, a litany of supplication and despair.

On the easel was a painting unlike anything I had ever seen. It was a swirling vortex of blackness punctuated by flashes of crimson and gold. Within its depths, I saw faces—countless faces, contorted in expressions of unimaginable agony, their eyes hollow pits of despair. They seemed to writhe and scream, trapped within the canvas, their torment echoing in the chanting that filled the room.

As I watched, mesmerized and terrified, Finch reached out and plunged his hand into the painting. He gasped, a look of ecstasy mingled with unbearable pain contorting his features. He began to writhe, his body convulsing, and the chanting grew louder, more frantic.

Then, something happened. The painting began to glow, emanating a blinding light that filled the room. The air crackled with energy, and the temperature dropped precipitously. I felt an ancient and malevolent presence fill the space, a force of unimaginable power that threatened to overwhelm me.

I wanted to scream, to run, but I was rooted to the spot, unable to move, trapped in the unfolding horror. Finch continued to chant, his body now levitating above the floor, his eyes wide and unseeing. Then, with a final, agonizing scream, he vanished.

The light faded, the chanting ceased, and the presence dissipated, leaving only an oppressive silence behind. I stumbled backward, coughing, my lungs burning, my mind reeling. The painting remained on the easel, but now it was blank, devoid of colour, a void staring back at me.

I fled the house, running unthinkingly through the darkness, the image of Finch’s final moments seared into my memory. I never looked back.

In the days that followed, I tried to rationalize what I had seen, to dismiss it as a hallucination, a product of stress and exhaustion. But I knew the truth. I had witnessed something beyond human comprehension that defied the laws of nature and the boundaries of reality.

In his relentless pursuit of the ineffable, Alistair Finch had opened a door that should have remained sealed. He had peered into the abyss and, in doing so, had become consumed by it. His legend was not one of fire but of shadow, a chilling reminder of the dangers of seeking forbidden knowledge and the fragility of the human soul when confronted with the unimaginable.

The house still stands on the promontory, a silent sentinel overlooking the sea. Locals avoid it; they fear a tangible force that keeps them at bay. I, too, avoid it, but not out of fear. My avoidance stems from a profound sorrow, a recognition of the terrible price Finch paid for his ambition, and a chilling understanding of the darkness that lies dormant within us all, waiting for the opportunity to consume us. The ouroboros had devoured him, the cycle of dissolution complete, leaving only an echo of terror in the windswept silence.