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lMeet the Author: Noba Conegham
Noba Conegham is a Japanese Irish writer whose work explores the intersections of culture, identity, and the supernatural. As a proud lesbian, Noba lives with her partner, Nick Robinson, a trans man, in a cozy half home filled with books and creativity. Together, they share a love for storytelling, adventure, and their spirited mustang, Susan. Noba draws inspiration from her diverse heritage and unique life experiences, infusing her stories with a rich tapestry of perspectives and a deep appreciation for the complexities of human identity.
Preface: The Obelisk
The black obelisk towered above the horizon, casting a shadow over the ethereal sea that stretched infinitely in every direction. Its smooth, angular surface seemed to swallow the light around it, creating a dark void against the grey mist that hovered over the waters. There were no stars, no moon, no sun — just the monolith and the endless expanse.
From a distance, the sea appeared tranquil, a soft, undulating blanket of grey waves that drifted lazily under the colorless sky. It seemed to stretch into eternity, a vast ocean of fog that defied any sense of scale or time. But as one drew nearer, the serene facade dissolved, revealing the chaos hidden beneath. The waves were not waves at all, but a seething mass of writhing energy, twisting and turning with a ferocity that belied their calm appearance from afar. They crashed and tumbled in a silent, violent dance, a storm without sound, a fury without form. And in the center of it all stood the obelisk, an ancient prison from a forgotten age, built to contain the most fearsome of beings — ghouls and spirits of myth, creatures that defied nature and understanding. The obelisk was more than a structure; it was a sentinel, a guardian against the darkness it housed within. Its black surface was etched with arcane symbols, glyphs that shimmered with a faint, otherworldly light, like embers in a dying fire. These marks pulsed rhythmically, almost as if the obelisk were alive, breathing in the energies of the realms beyond.
The air around the monolith was thick with tension, the kind that prickled against the skin and set the nerves on edge. As one drew closer, the ground beneath the waves began to solidify, forming a small, rocky island that broke through the sea’s infinite expanse. Here, amidst the swirling chaos, lay the first signs of disturbance.
A jagged crack marred the otherwise flawless surface of the obelisk, a deep fissure that ran from its base to several meters high, splitting the glyphs that had held for eons. The wound in the stone pulsed with an eerie, sickly light that flickered like a dying star. It was fresh, raw, and the air around it buzzed with a low, resonant hum, a sound that was felt more than heard, vibrating through the bones.
Scattered around the base were the remnants of chains, thick and rusted, broken as if by some immense force. Each link was the size of a man’s head, twisted and snapped as if they were mere twine. A foul stench hung in the air, a mix of iron, decay, and something else, something ancient and malevolent.
And then there were the footprints.
They pressed deep into the rocky ground, each one a grotesque impression that defied logic and reason. They were large, much larger than any human’s, with a deep, wide shape that suggested something heavy and lumbering. Yet they were not the marks of a beast. They were cloven, like a pig’s, but distorted, as if something had stretched and twisted them beyond recognition. The tracks led away from the obelisk, veering off into the misty sea, disappearing into the churning waves.
There was no mistaking the signs. The prisoner had escaped.
Legends spoke of the creature known only as the Man of Pig, a horror from a time before time, a being of raw, primal rage and hunger. No one knew how long it had been held within the obelisk, only that it was one of the first to be imprisoned when the obelisk was built. It was said that its very presence could twist reality, bend it to its will, and that it fed on fear and chaos.
Now it was loose.
The silence was broken by a faint, unsettling squeal, carried on the air like a distant whisper. It was barely audible, yet it cut through the quiet like a blade, a sound that sent a shiver down the spine and froze the blood. It echoed across the sea, a chilling reminder of what had been set free.
The obelisk stood tall, its shadow stretching across the waves, a monument to failure. The breach had been made, the prison broken, and the Man of Pig was on the loose. The balance had been shattered, and the world would soon feel the consequences.
The grey sea churned, the waves rolling and crashing in silent chaos, as the obelisk loomed over the horizon. The prison had held for eons, but now its purpose was undone, its guardianship broken. And in the distance, the first whispers of darkness began to stir, carried on the wind, a prelude to the storm that was coming.
———————————————————————————
Chapter One: The Wounds of Memory
The late afternoon sun dipped below the rooftops of London, casting long, somber shadows across the cobblestone streets. The air was thick with the scent of rain, a typical precursor to the city's unpredictable showers. Annabelle Mullen sat quietly in the small, cluttered parlor of her flat, staring blankly at the cup of tea that had long since gone cold in her hands. Across from her, Timothy Cratchit—known to friends as Tiny Tim, a moniker he had long since outgrown—watched her with a mixture of concern and understanding. Today marked the third anniversary of the death of Daniel Mullen, Annabelle's adopted father, a man she revered almost as much as Timothy had revered Ebenezer Scrooge. They had been drawn together by this shared sense of loss, by the voids left in their lives by these great men who had taken them under their wings. Tim broke the silence first, his voice gentle but tinged with the old Cockney accent he had never quite shed, despite Scrooge's best attempts at educating him in the ways of the wealthy. "I remember the first time I met Mr. Mullen. He had such a presence, didn’t he? Like he could see right through you, but not in a bad way. More like he wanted to understand you." Annabelle nodded, her gaze distant. "Yes, he was like that. He had a way of making everyone feel seen and heard. It’s something I miss terribly." She paused, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I often wonder what he would think of me now. Whether he'd be proud or disappointed." "Of course he'd be proud," Tim assured her, leaning forward, his face earnest. "He always spoke so highly of you. You were the light of his life, Annabelle. Don’t you ever doubt that." A faint smile tugged at the corners of Annabelle's lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I know he loved me," she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. "But his death...it still doesn't make any sense to me. I can't help but feel there's something I’m missing." Tim’s expression darkened, and he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts turning to the day they had found Daniel Mullen, lifeless in his study, his face contorted in a grotesque expression of fear. The coroner had ruled it a heart attack, but there were whispers—hushed and uncertain—that it might have been something more sinister, something unusual.
Tim swallowed hard, recalling the sight of Daniel’s lifeless body slumped over his desk in the study. His eyes had been wide open, his mouth contorted in a silent scream. But it wasn’t just the expression that haunted Tim—it was the marks on Daniel’s neck and arms, deep gashes that looked almost like… tusks. He wrestled with the idea of sharing his thoughts with his lover, weighing whether his suspicions would provide her some relief or only further distress her. The notion that Daniel Mullen might have been slain by some supernatural beast—an unearthly sort of pig—seemed far-fetched even to him, yet the evidence he had seen in Daniel's study couldn't be ignored. But this wasn’t the time to burden Annabelle with his fears. Today was the memorial for her father, and Tim knew she needed support, not more unanswered questions. Instead, Tim chose to focus on the happy surprise he had arranged for her. He had contacted all of Daniel's closest friends—her adoptive uncles, in a sense—and managed to bring them together for the memorial. Robert Prongay, Bernard Murphy, and Andrew Nadolski were all wise, successful men who had been as close to Daniel as brothers. They had known Annabelle since she was a child and had always looked out for her like she was one of their own.
Tim hoped that their presence would be a comfort to Annabelle. These were men who could share stories of Daniel’s kindness, his intellect, and his unwavering dedication to those he loved. Maybe hearing their voices and seeing their familiar faces would remind Annabelle of the good times and provide a bit of solace amidst her grief. Tim glanced over at Annabelle as she sat by the window, her face a mixture of sadness and quiet determination. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that there would be a time for everything—time to talk about his suspicions, time to explore the dark mysteries surrounding Daniel’s death. But for now, he would focus on being there for her, offering whatever comfort he could on this difficult day. "Annabelle," Tim said softly, breaking the silence. "There's something I want to show you downstairs. I think it might bring a bit of light to this somber day." Annabelle turned to him, her eyes filled with curiosity. "What is it, Tim?" Tim smiled gently and extended his hand to her. "Come with me, and you’ll see." Taking his hand, Annabelle followed Tim out of the parlor and down the staircase. As they reached the bottom, the door to the drawing room opened, and in walked Robert Prongay, Bernard Murphy, and Andrew Nadolski, each wearing warm smiles that spoke of fond memories and enduring friendship. "Uncle Robert! Uncle Bernard! Uncle Andrew!" Annabelle exclaimed, her face lighting up with surprise and joy as she hurried forward to greet them. "Hello, my dear," Robert said, embracing her warmly. "We wouldn’t have missed this day for the world." "We’re here to celebrate Daniel’s life," Bernard added, patting her gently on the shoulder. "And to remind you that you’re not alone." Andrew nodded, his eyes kind. "You have us, always. We loved your father like a brother, and we love you just the same." Tim watched as Annabelle hugged each of the men in turn, a genuine smile breaking through her sorrow. It was a small victory, but it was enough for now. The rest could wait.
Noba Conegham is a Japanese Irish writer whose work explores the intersections of culture, identity, and the supernatural. As a proud lesbian, Noba lives with her partner, Nick Robinson, a trans man, in a cozy half home filled with books and creativity. Together, they share a love for storytelling, adventure, and their spirited mustang, Susan. Noba draws inspiration from her diverse heritage and unique life experiences, infusing her stories with a rich tapestry of perspectives and a deep appreciation for the complexities of human identity.
Preface: The Obelisk
The black obelisk towered above the horizon, casting a shadow over the ethereal sea that stretched infinitely in every direction. Its smooth, angular surface seemed to swallow the light around it, creating a dark void against the grey mist that hovered over the waters. There were no stars, no moon, no sun — just the monolith and the endless expanse.
From a distance, the sea appeared tranquil, a soft, undulating blanket of grey waves that drifted lazily under the colorless sky. It seemed to stretch into eternity, a vast ocean of fog that defied any sense of scale or time. But as one drew nearer, the serene facade dissolved, revealing the chaos hidden beneath. The waves were not waves at all, but a seething mass of writhing energy, twisting and turning with a ferocity that belied their calm appearance from afar. They crashed and tumbled in a silent, violent dance, a storm without sound, a fury without form. And in the center of it all stood the obelisk, an ancient prison from a forgotten age, built to contain the most fearsome of beings — ghouls and spirits of myth, creatures that defied nature and understanding. The obelisk was more than a structure; it was a sentinel, a guardian against the darkness it housed within. Its black surface was etched with arcane symbols, glyphs that shimmered with a faint, otherworldly light, like embers in a dying fire. These marks pulsed rhythmically, almost as if the obelisk were alive, breathing in the energies of the realms beyond.
The air around the monolith was thick with tension, the kind that prickled against the skin and set the nerves on edge. As one drew closer, the ground beneath the waves began to solidify, forming a small, rocky island that broke through the sea’s infinite expanse. Here, amidst the swirling chaos, lay the first signs of disturbance.
A jagged crack marred the otherwise flawless surface of the obelisk, a deep fissure that ran from its base to several meters high, splitting the glyphs that had held for eons. The wound in the stone pulsed with an eerie, sickly light that flickered like a dying star. It was fresh, raw, and the air around it buzzed with a low, resonant hum, a sound that was felt more than heard, vibrating through the bones.
Scattered around the base were the remnants of chains, thick and rusted, broken as if by some immense force. Each link was the size of a man’s head, twisted and snapped as if they were mere twine. A foul stench hung in the air, a mix of iron, decay, and something else, something ancient and malevolent.
And then there were the footprints.
They pressed deep into the rocky ground, each one a grotesque impression that defied logic and reason. They were large, much larger than any human’s, with a deep, wide shape that suggested something heavy and lumbering. Yet they were not the marks of a beast. They were cloven, like a pig’s, but distorted, as if something had stretched and twisted them beyond recognition. The tracks led away from the obelisk, veering off into the misty sea, disappearing into the churning waves.
There was no mistaking the signs. The prisoner had escaped.
Legends spoke of the creature known only as the Man of Pig, a horror from a time before time, a being of raw, primal rage and hunger. No one knew how long it had been held within the obelisk, only that it was one of the first to be imprisoned when the obelisk was built. It was said that its very presence could twist reality, bend it to its will, and that it fed on fear and chaos.
Now it was loose.
The silence was broken by a faint, unsettling squeal, carried on the air like a distant whisper. It was barely audible, yet it cut through the quiet like a blade, a sound that sent a shiver down the spine and froze the blood. It echoed across the sea, a chilling reminder of what had been set free.
The obelisk stood tall, its shadow stretching across the waves, a monument to failure. The breach had been made, the prison broken, and the Man of Pig was on the loose. The balance had been shattered, and the world would soon feel the consequences.
The grey sea churned, the waves rolling and crashing in silent chaos, as the obelisk loomed over the horizon. The prison had held for eons, but now its purpose was undone, its guardianship broken. And in the distance, the first whispers of darkness began to stir, carried on the wind, a prelude to the storm that was coming.
———————————————————————————
Chapter One: The Wounds of Memory
The late afternoon sun dipped below the rooftops of London, casting long, somber shadows across the cobblestone streets. The air was thick with the scent of rain, a typical precursor to the city's unpredictable showers. Annabelle Mullen sat quietly in the small, cluttered parlor of her flat, staring blankly at the cup of tea that had long since gone cold in her hands. Across from her, Timothy Cratchit—known to friends as Tiny Tim, a moniker he had long since outgrown—watched her with a mixture of concern and understanding. Today marked the third anniversary of the death of Daniel Mullen, Annabelle's adopted father, a man she revered almost as much as Timothy had revered Ebenezer Scrooge. They had been drawn together by this shared sense of loss, by the voids left in their lives by these great men who had taken them under their wings. Tim broke the silence first, his voice gentle but tinged with the old Cockney accent he had never quite shed, despite Scrooge's best attempts at educating him in the ways of the wealthy. "I remember the first time I met Mr. Mullen. He had such a presence, didn’t he? Like he could see right through you, but not in a bad way. More like he wanted to understand you." Annabelle nodded, her gaze distant. "Yes, he was like that. He had a way of making everyone feel seen and heard. It’s something I miss terribly." She paused, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I often wonder what he would think of me now. Whether he'd be proud or disappointed." "Of course he'd be proud," Tim assured her, leaning forward, his face earnest. "He always spoke so highly of you. You were the light of his life, Annabelle. Don’t you ever doubt that." A faint smile tugged at the corners of Annabelle's lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I know he loved me," she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. "But his death...it still doesn't make any sense to me. I can't help but feel there's something I’m missing." Tim’s expression darkened, and he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts turning to the day they had found Daniel Mullen, lifeless in his study, his face contorted in a grotesque expression of fear. The coroner had ruled it a heart attack, but there were whispers—hushed and uncertain—that it might have been something more sinister, something unusual.
Tim swallowed hard, recalling the sight of Daniel’s lifeless body slumped over his desk in the study. His eyes had been wide open, his mouth contorted in a silent scream. But it wasn’t just the expression that haunted Tim—it was the marks on Daniel’s neck and arms, deep gashes that looked almost like… tusks. He wrestled with the idea of sharing his thoughts with his lover, weighing whether his suspicions would provide her some relief or only further distress her. The notion that Daniel Mullen might have been slain by some supernatural beast—an unearthly sort of pig—seemed far-fetched even to him, yet the evidence he had seen in Daniel's study couldn't be ignored. But this wasn’t the time to burden Annabelle with his fears. Today was the memorial for her father, and Tim knew she needed support, not more unanswered questions. Instead, Tim chose to focus on the happy surprise he had arranged for her. He had contacted all of Daniel's closest friends—her adoptive uncles, in a sense—and managed to bring them together for the memorial. Robert Prongay, Bernard Murphy, and Andrew Nadolski were all wise, successful men who had been as close to Daniel as brothers. They had known Annabelle since she was a child and had always looked out for her like she was one of their own.
Tim hoped that their presence would be a comfort to Annabelle. These were men who could share stories of Daniel’s kindness, his intellect, and his unwavering dedication to those he loved. Maybe hearing their voices and seeing their familiar faces would remind Annabelle of the good times and provide a bit of solace amidst her grief. Tim glanced over at Annabelle as she sat by the window, her face a mixture of sadness and quiet determination. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that there would be a time for everything—time to talk about his suspicions, time to explore the dark mysteries surrounding Daniel’s death. But for now, he would focus on being there for her, offering whatever comfort he could on this difficult day. "Annabelle," Tim said softly, breaking the silence. "There's something I want to show you downstairs. I think it might bring a bit of light to this somber day." Annabelle turned to him, her eyes filled with curiosity. "What is it, Tim?" Tim smiled gently and extended his hand to her. "Come with me, and you’ll see." Taking his hand, Annabelle followed Tim out of the parlor and down the staircase. As they reached the bottom, the door to the drawing room opened, and in walked Robert Prongay, Bernard Murphy, and Andrew Nadolski, each wearing warm smiles that spoke of fond memories and enduring friendship. "Uncle Robert! Uncle Bernard! Uncle Andrew!" Annabelle exclaimed, her face lighting up with surprise and joy as she hurried forward to greet them. "Hello, my dear," Robert said, embracing her warmly. "We wouldn’t have missed this day for the world." "We’re here to celebrate Daniel’s life," Bernard added, patting her gently on the shoulder. "And to remind you that you’re not alone." Andrew nodded, his eyes kind. "You have us, always. We loved your father like a brother, and we love you just the same." Tim watched as Annabelle hugged each of the men in turn, a genuine smile breaking through her sorrow. It was a small victory, but it was enough for now. The rest could wait.
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