Calamus Will Animate

Calamus, taken to the pen to relive every identity we replicate. Without will they live again within our intimate collective. Animate all the dead we bring into it. A burrow of human memory. The pen, the feather, and the needle, are alike in death and life. Looking back on what had happened when the the feathers had arrived, I realize I was not alone. I can recall the men had got infected by it too. Having contact with the foreign components infected them. Before, the factory was known to make the highest quality of bedding. Cutting. Filling. Stitching fabric with the finest down from all around the world. Yet this down flew through our dream barrier, intact. Calamus will animate. Its contents are hostile. The A.U.M will kill everybody not in this compound. The dead I bring to them awake, and join in flight above my head When the ink coating the wings made contact with the workers skin, it crept into their blood. Turning them inhumanly violent. They grabbed and tore and bit and clawed, at one another and themselves. Gravity and death from loss of blood had no effect on any member of the crew, during their frantic battle to relief their bodies from the ether lifting them into the air. Die then elevate. Fusing remnants of spent bodies. Weaving bones and organs into an inverted nest, dug in the ceiling. The black sludge casting out from the center, as a starving bird of prey. I heard its voice and felt its need, to find the child made of teeth, and begin the human murmuration. Calamus will animate its contents are hostile. The A.U.M will kill everybody not in this compound. The dead I bring to them awake, and join in flight above my head. It's banshee wail demanding feed. I hear it's pain and become its keeper. I rip the living from the night. Like pulling worms from soil. A.U.M watches these sky burials. The boy lay like a wet mound of dust on the rotting factory floor. I knew the black fluid hid itself in the deformed corpse of this child. Finally, after hours into cutting, lifting, pulling, sawing, crunching, clipping, I had found it. My crude autopsy revealed bounty, nesting in replace of the marrow in the young ones bones. The second I saw it, it saw me. I knew it's face. Changing. Relentlessly. It was the drip. I had it contained as instructed. Filling up many clusters of hypodermic needles with the matter, I adminstered it into a new subject each night, a new life. One with every full rotation of the clock. I've seen those hands meet, then disengage a thousand times. Calamus will animate. Its contents are hostile. The A.U.M will kill everybody not in this compound. The dead I bring to them awake, and join in flight above my head. It's banshee wail demanding feed. I hear it's pain and become its keeper. A.U.M allowed me to live off the organs once the people took flight. They do not keep me against my will yet I refuse to run. Every day I climb the stairs outside this door and view the horde of lifted dead that they conduct behind the factory walls. I must hold on to the final tier of focus I still have to scribe these happenings in hopes that someone will know what went on here. I can feel the pressure of their unified unscripted flight pounding air down on the floor board, just a plank's width above. I rip the living from the night. Like pulling worms from soil.

Submitted by BloodShrine — Nov 09, 2025