Old Whitby Psych
**The following was found by an acquaintance during his exploration of old Whitby Psych, before it was demolished. Found in the basement levels, he claimed the paper seemed new when he found it. Based on the surrounding area, he concluded the letter to have been written by a squatter.**
This is not the work of a higher being. A higher being would have no need to employ graphite and paper to express its thoughts. And why should it bother? Why would it wish to impart its knowledge upon some stranger? I can see it: a youth in his inquisitive twenties will find the letter, following an unusual series of events that he has largely dismissed as coincidental, only to cry out to an unknown audience “Oh, how I wish I never read that accursed transcript!” in his most literary tone. But how glad he would truly be!
I am not writing to fulfill a contract, or prophecy, or curse. I have no great wisdom. There is no such thing as great wisdom. There is no hidden knowledge of the ancients. The ancients were children, like you and I, that had simply grown old and died. Metal cannot be transmuted into gold; there is no root that screams and petrifies once it’s been uprooted; there is no soul nestled deep in the confines of your ego, no pure expression of your being that will live eternally.
I have heard it asked: Why are you afraid of the dark?
In the universe, as we know it, we are surrounded by emptiness and inanimate lumps of mineral floating in a vacuous expanse in which we cannot naturally survive. The natural state of existence could be said to be non-life. Life is an aberration, as light is an aberration. Light requires energy, darkness requires nothing except to wait. As the spark fades to black, the living are destined to join the rest of the inanimate universe as all creation tries to restore the natural order. No light; no life.
Is it any wonder that life must consume other life in order to continue? Those creatures, like you and I, with sentience must surely be the most adept at returning life to the nothingness of its origins. An anti-virus, we have become the most efficient at destruction and that is why we are here. To devour and destroy each other until there is nothing left but Man, and when Man is all that is left, it will be a simple matter of starvation and suicide. The universe will be returned to its normal state until the next disease is contracted.
You do not fear the dark because of monsters. You want to see the monsters. The monsters let you know that something undefined and greater at work has intended the existence of a life beyond mere accident. Whatever horrors you conceive, we crave the manner in which they justify our existence as something “more”.
But there is nothing more. You fear the dark as one fears their retirement; you dread the day your use is gone and the very notion of life itself will be not even a memory amongst the silent rocks and passing sparks. You fear that even the terrible things mankind has done means nothing, for it was only to the living it happened, and the living are a temporary blight on the perfection of non-life.
Nothing matters. We are here to consume, to break down, and to fade away with a whimper that will fall on an audience of stone. That is our lot. You may try to conserve, to protect, but your own existence is a detriment by its very nature. The best thing you can do is become inanimate. The best thing I can do is bring stillness to the struggling. It is not beautiful. It is not anything.
**The font style has changed to cursive at this point.**
I’m sorry, that was a trick. I am actually part of a secret organization dedicated to raising an ancient pantheon of gods, who shall bestow their followers with all the arcane secrets of Creation. Whoever finds this letter is now amongst the elite and shall carry forever the burden of knowledge of an ancient and powerful series of higher beings (make sure to tell the Internet!). Know that you now have a purpose. All that you read before was just a test. You passed. Your certificate will be in the mail. No need to leave an address; we have scouts everywhere, for we are ancient and hidden, and therefore know exactly where you live. You may not see us, ever, or hear us, ever, but know that somewhere, at some time, we may call upon you to complete a very important task that truly matters to someone for some reason. You will have to leave behind your loved ones to pursue your quest, but I imagine you’ll probably welcome the change when it happens.
Turn around. Go home. Leave the light on, if you like, and go to bed. Sleep with the knowledge that monsters are real, all the myths from childhood were true, and that everyone but you is being fooled by petty modern concepts such as rationality and logic.
You seeker of knowledge, you raider of hidden truths. May the words you have read here follow you to sleep.
**Whitby Psych and surrounding forest have since been bulldozed to make room for new housing.**