The Crockle

Описание: The air in the abandoned asylum chapel was like a tomb, thick with the dust of forgotten screams. Thomas, a photographer obsessed with urban decay, had only one thought: capture the perfect shot. He’d heard whispers about this particular wing – how the last patients vanished, leaving only a pervasive chill and the scent of iron.
Then he saw it.
It stood silhouetted against a cracked stained-glass window, a gaunt, skeletal horror of twisted limbs and gnarled flesh. Dozens of eyes, black and wet like polished obsidian, studded its lumpy, malformed head, reflecting the slivers of moonlight with an unsettling, ancient gleam. Its skin was a dry, reptilian hide, stretched taut over a frame that seemed too fragile for the malevolent weight it carried. A long, withered snout hung low, almost brushing the floor.
It didn't move. Not a twitch, not a breath. Yet, Thomas felt an intense, crushing pressure in his chest, as if an unseen weight pressed down on him. Each of its countless eyes seemed to bore into him, not with hunger, but with an incomprehensible, alien intelligence that flayed his very soul. He felt exposed, utterly naked before a gaze that understood every fear, every hidden thought.
A faint, almost imperceptible scrape echoed in the silence – the sound of its impossibly long, clawed fingers dragging across the grimy stone floor. It wasn't moving forward, but the sound seemed to come from all around him, a phantom presence encircling him.
Then, from the collective abyss of its eyes, a single, vast orb swiveled, focusing entirely on Thomas. It was deep, bottomless, and utterly devoid of mercy. He didn't hear a sound, but felt a thought, cold and precise, unfold in his mind: You were expected.
Thomas dropped his camera. The sound of plastic hitting stone was deafening in the profound silence that followed. He stumbled backward, his breath catching in his throat. This wasn't just a monster; it was something ancient, something that had waited.
He didn't remember fleeing the chapel, only the desperate, gasping flight through the decaying halls, the chilling certainty that those eyes were still fixed on him. Even now, safe in his bed, the memory is a cold knot of terror. He knows it waits. Not in the chapel, but in the dark corners of his mind, its myriad eyes always watching, always expecting. And sometimes, when he closes his own eyes, he sees only that vast, unblinking gaze, and the chilling truth that some things, once seen, can never truly leave.

This is an original drawing and story by me from the inner depths of my mind.

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