When walls start talking…

Maybe it was the sheer isolation of being sequestered out here in the desolation of the Liminality, under some pretense of safeguarding a heart, that brought everything to life. It’s possible. Loneliness has an immense power, and boredom even more. When the mind is deprived of the interactions it evolved to facilitate, perhaps it is able to facilitate evolution to achieve interactions.

Awkward Silences

Perhaps it was something else entirely. For instance it could have been his odd choice of reading material, splitting his time between the cold determinism that had brought him to this place, and the free flowing arcane mutterings of madmen and sage’s –

He filled several notebooks with odd symbols and pieces of prose he ran across in his studies. In winter when the sun went home at lunchtime and it became inhospitable outside in the howling commercial headwinds, he read his journals aloud, rocking pensively in his grandad’s rocker, trying to bend the light from his only lamp.

(he called the lamp Betty, and they became dear friends.)


Something had to give, and eventually something did. Or, rather, everything did. Something about his studies into the ancient belief that everything was alive and conscious combined with the artifice of his alchemical duties. Add a mind that was powerful, creative to the point of deviousness and, perhaps, ill suited for prolonged duties in isolation, and what transpired almost makes sense.

After not transmitting his reports for several cycles, a relief team was sent out into the Liminality to see if they could be of assistance. What they found left several of that team shaken to their core.

Through whatever combination of isolation and determination, the walls of his reality had broken down. As a result, the physical walls of the outpost had evolved and… given birth to a new kind of twisted, liminal architectural life.


Their creator, however, was never seen again. Only his nonsensical journals remained – the only things in the outpost that had not become screaming, quivering horrors. And yet in some ways the notes were the most alive, and horrible, of all.

Memoirs from the Liminality


  1. Pingback: Amour Fou

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