At The Frontier Of Madness

on April 13, 2011 in Horror

He drew the team of oxen to a halt. All the creaking and clattering of the wagon ceased. The only sounds were the wind moving through the tall prairie grasses and the babel of whispering voices that poured out from the rift, a million unseen tongues gibbering harsh alien consonants.

The team of oxen stood impassively, as if they couldn’t perceive the vast jagged tear in the sky that now stretched across the horizon and was still expanding at an alarming rate. He turned to his young wife, sitting beside him on the board. She had said nothing since the rip first appeared and he was beginning to doubt the report of his senses. He didn’t know if he should be reassured by that or not. If she could not see what he was seeing, then he had gone mad… but if she could, then the world had.

“Well?” he said.

“Well what?”

“Do you see that?” he asked.

“Do you mean the sky torn open?” she said. “Yes, I see it. How could I not?”

“And what do you make of it?”

“Well,” his wife said, eyeing the undulating tentacles that had begun to slip in and out of the rift, “it seems to me that when you dragged me out of the city you said you wanted wide open spaces. I don’t think space can get much more open than that.”

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