Through the fog, a few miles east of the bjørgmûnd archipelago, rocked a small, fragile fishing boat. Its front lighting illuminated a few feet in front of it, which created a false sense of security for the angler, who sat perched on the edge of the boat. The cold night air was brisk, but comforting. He held his fishing rod whilst he looked out into the water, as he contemplated why he was here.
The truth was—he was curious.
He had heard the rumours, the old fisherman’s tales of what lurked in these waters, and needed to see for himself. The angler had been told by locals (residents of the fishing village of Hardshore) to “leave the waters alone”. He had noted that they seemed disturbed, the features that make a man human had seemed to have faded, and their fear when talking of the “Abyssal Horror” (as they called it) was almost too real to just be a story to scare children, or the tale of a drunken sailor who saw a whale through the distorted lens of whisky.
And yet despite that—despite the warnings, the red flags— here he was, fishing for answers, fishing for the truth.
The angler felt a tug on the line, and started to reel it in, with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. The hook came out of the water attached to a fish about the size of a trout. At first glance, this fish was an ordinary catch however, on closer inspection, it was anything but. It is, of course, usual for a fish to still be alive when out of the water—but this particular fish seemed to be…undead, as if inhabited by an otherworldly essence. The eyes glowed ghostly green and from underneath the scales, a flesh like substance oozed out, whilst the creature writhed and…screamed? Yes, screamed! It appeared to be screaming, howling in some unknown tongue. The angler grabbed the fish with force and bashed it against the deck again and again and again. After the 11th bash, the angler dropped it and stood back—taking a breath. After 5 seconds of silence, observing the battered and beaten fish, he decided it was, and truly, dead.
The encounter had shocked the angler, but had also intrigued him. He used the fishing rod to dig through the remains of the fish, looking for clues as to what caused this poor creature so much pain. He dug through liver, lungs and brain before finding the heart. And what horror! It was black, twisted and excreting a liquid, of the same colour and consistency as pitch. In a reckless and foolish move, driven by pure curiosity and intrigue, the angler reached forward, pressing his hand into the liquid. The moment he made contact with it, his mind was overwhelmed with the same screaming voice that came from the disfigured fish, but now it was louder, clearer. He could make out what it was saying, understand it. It was commanding him. Commanding him to rise, and the angler obliged. The water trembled, and from the depths rose a monstrosity so immense, it was almost beyond description.
The Abyssal Horror.
Dozens of tentacles emerged from the water, surrounding the small ship. Each tentacle was covered in sharp, jagged blade-like teeth, made of the same slimy black flesh as the fish’s heart, oozing with the same pitch-like substance. The tentacles ranged in size from a few feet to a few hundred feet in length, stretching into the sky, arching over the boat, blocking out the night. The angler stood, looking into the thousands upon thousands of rows of teeth above him. He trembled, but did not scream, as no one was there to hear. He allowed his thoughts to be dissolved by the ever loudening screams of the abyss. He watched as the darkness closed in–both on his mind and body–and the boat was sucked down into the deep.