I know not what brings me more terror. That when I read that book, that thrice damned book accursed of all that is holy and natural, that I saw visions of hell that were beyond the cruelties of all the many demons fallen from gods grace, or that I, standing in that tormented plane beyond sight and sound and reason, that in the cacophony of weeping gods I heard a voice asking me, clear as day and as gentle as my grandfather would ask, a question.

"You should not be here, little one."

What terrifies me most, not that I stood in that realm of madness, that I gazed upon the true sight of the sun and saw, under green skies and orange glow, the sun was but the writhing mass of gods own afterbirth, the squamous birth of a dragon yet to hatch from a molten egg, but that the man in yellow and wearing a mask that moved, looked on me through hollow eyes, and asked with concern, why I was there. That I, in a place that god would fear to tread, that this creature asked why I had crossed over and stood on the very edge of sanity, and beyond it.

"You should not be here, young one."

And he held to me a medalion, made of cool metal and forged by no hands human, and touched it to my brow, sending me back. And now, staring at the mirror, gazing on the scar left in its wake, I must ask, is it more terrible to gaze upon the realm of madness, or find something who cared to send you back?

For even now, I stare at the sun, and scream, knowing what it is.