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The Veilborn

The air in the old house hung thick and cold, a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing down. Turner clutched the rusted lantern tighter, its meager glow barely pushing back the oppressive gloom of the basement. He’d scoffed at the whispers, the old wives' tales about what lurked beneath the foundation, but a primal dread was beginning to coil in his gut. Then he saw it. It was not a shadow, not a trick of the light, but a thing of grotesque, impossible biology. It sprawled across the earthen floor, its form a nightmare of sinew, bone, and what looked terrifyingly like... calcified faces. Its head was a grinning skull, hollow eyes sockets staring into Turners very soul, framed by a wild, tangled mane of what could only be described as dead, wiry hair. Its jaw was unhinged, revealing rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth, each one glinting faintly in the lantern's weak glow. But the horror didn't stop there. Along its segmented, twisted body, more skulls protruded, some half-formed, others fully fleshed yet impossibly small, their own empty eyes seeming to weep black ichor. The creature's limbs were elongated, gnarled, ending in clawed hands that looked disturbingly human, yet grotesquely distended, as if stretched and ripped from their proper forms. And its tail… it was a writhing coil of segmented flesh, adorned with an unsettling array of what looked like shriveled, sightless eyeballs. A low, guttural chittering filled the silence, a sound that seemed to scrape against Turners very bones. It was a sound of hunger, of ancient, unfathomable malice. The creature shifted, slowly, deliberately, its skeletal head tilting. One of its elongated claws scraped against the damp earth, a sound like nails dragging on a coffin lid. Turners breath hitched. He wanted to scream, to run, but his feet felt rooted to the spot, encased in a fear more potent than any he’d ever known. The creature began to move, dragging itself forward with a sickening slither, its numerous ocular protrusions seeming to fixate on him with an unholy intensity. The stench hit him then – a cloying, sweet odour of decay and something else… something metallic and sickly, like old blood and forgotten things. He could feel its gaze, not just from the main skull, but from every single one of those wretched, embedded faces along its body. They weren't just eyes; they were windows into a suffering beyond comprehension and a desire to inflict it. The chittering grew louder, more frantic, a promise of unspeakable agony. Turner finally broke free of his paralysis, a primal scream tearing from his throat as he turned and scrambled back up the creaking stairs, the image of that grinning skull and its myriad, empty eyes burned forever into his mind. He didn't know what it was, or how it had come to be, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he had just stared into the face of true, unadulterated horror, and it was coming for him. This is an original drawing and story by me from the inner depths of my mind. Discover more creatures from my ink soaked mind    • Unreal Drawings Born From Dreams