I write this in a moment of my own clarity; a time that I am not consumed by the fears of what has passed. I beseech you, then, spurn my writing. Get rid of it. Do not read any of those haunting words, for the incoherent thoughts in my head have corrupted those works.

But I will tell you why.

Read only if you dare.

I was riding to my neighbor’s house. You must understand, I lived on and worked a farm at the time and the nearest neighbor was Anthony Greyson. It was possibly a half-hour trip by horse, shorter if I had the horse gallop. What made it worse this day, though, was the rain. It fell in sheets and droves. My eyes had begun to hurt maybe halfway there, due to the water stinging my eyes and the permanent squint I’d adopted to try and see more than six feet in front of me.

I relied mostly on my faithful horse, one I had lovingly named Blaze because of the white mark on her forehead. I almost cried with relief when I arrived at the Greyson’s residence.

But my joy was not to last. Anthony had disappeared some few days ago and nobody had seen a sign nor heard a peep since. Despite this, the man’s house was still pristine, cared for by the maid he’d hired the week he vanished.

The man hadn’t married by this time and worked the fields for the lion’s share of the day. The house was left without an inhabitant to clean and repair the place. It made some sense, then, to hire the lass.

The house was painted with a pale white and the windows loomed dark in contrast. A veranda jutted from the front, offset to the side and creaky wooden stairs showed the way up onto the porch. The house itself, thinking back on it now, resembled a ghost most strangely.

I trudged through the mud to the veranda, where a brass knocker in the shape of a fleur-de-lis on the white-painted door met me. The overhang provided enough protection from the rain and I donned my hat. I held it at my chest as I banged the knocker against the lily.

Truth be told, I wasn’t expecting someone to answer the door. I was doing it more out of politeness than anything else. I’d planned to open the door after and show myself in. After all, Greyson was missing, no?

But it was the young lass who greeted me at the veranda.

“How may I help you, sir?” she’d asked. I was caught off guard, you see, and it took me a moment to answer.

“I merely came to see if Mister Greyson had returned,” I told her. She squinted her brown eyes at me.

“You’re the man from the other farm, yes? Martin Erakson, yes?” I nodded, my hat still held to my sternum.

“You’d be correct,” I assured her. She gave a small curtsey, her dark hair falling briefly to hide her face.

“Some of the local law enforcement suspect you,” she’d continued as she gestured for me to come inside. Impolite to leave a guest in the cold and rain, I surmised.

“But you must know I’ve not done anything?” I was rightfully shocked – this was my first hearing of this accusation. The lass picked up a feather duster and returned her attention to the mantle above the fireplace as I sat in a chair in the living space.

“I do,” she replied without turning to face me. I sighed and took a chance to glance around the room.

“What’s that?” I asked the young woman suddenly.

“Hmm?”

I pointed to the stone statue, shrouded by darkness. A table sat in front of it, potentially like an altar of some sort. There was something under the cloth that was placed on the table.

“Oh, I don’t know. Greyson told me not to venture near that so I didn’t,” the lass replied as I strode to it. A sense of uneasiness came over me as I grew close.

“Also partially because it gives me bad feelings when I get too close,” the woman continued. I did not heed these words, even feeling what must’ve been similar to what she felt. I checked the table first.

A dagger and a bowl. Both had intricate designs carved on their surfaces. The blade of the dagger was flawless. The bowl, however, was not. I noticed the dark stains within the bowl. Holding it to the light, they became a rust color. I had a sinking suspicion of what this meant. Replacing the bowl, I studied the dagger. The blade was wickedly curved, and symbols on it depicted something unbeknownst to me. I had an urge to drag the blade across my arm, but I set it down instead. A rag had fallen to the floor, and I picked this up now. It too had dark stains of rust. Glancing down, I had seen further rusty dots on the ground.

A ritual, I estimated. I glanced back at the house’s caretaker, who was watching me curiously. I note, however, that there was a pitying light in her eyes, hidden well but there nonetheless.

The statue aroused within me a sense of dread. It seemed to have a feminine shape, vaguely human, but that’s where definite similarities to mankind stopped. Intricately carved scales covered this thing’s forearms and legs. The clothing it wore resembled nothing as I had seen before, yet it was stylish in a grim sort of way. There were no visible ears, eyes, or nose upon its face. Only a mouth split the monotony of the head, grinning devilishly and showing its grotesque teeth. It held a clawed talon forward, grasping for something. The other hand held a skull.

A plaque on its base read “THE FACELESS”, which unnerved me. The lack of a face had not sat well with me, and I keenly wanted to turn away. I grabbed the curved blade and cut my hand.

I yelped in pain. Glancing down, I’d seen a large gash across my palm. I must say now, this wound remains, ten years later, unhealed. I have tried most things to heal it, all in vain. The knife, now covered in blood – my blood – seemed to taunt me. “But cut again,” it seemed to whisper. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the thought. I cursed loudly.

“Cut again,” it insisted. I threw the knife down and stormed closer to the statue. Its grin seemed to mock me now.

“No!” I shouted at the thing. I took another step forward, but misfortune answered. I tripped and unconsciously my wounded hand pushed against the statue. I had a moment of shock to glean that it wasn’t stone. The hand unburdened by a skull shot across and gripped my neck.

Its eyeless face seemed to stare at me. I felt a real sense of this thing’s presence. Much more vast than I could ever comprehend. I stared at its grinning mouth as it impressed on me just how powerful it was. There was no hope. Together, Anthony Greyson and I had unleashed doom upon anything it wished to destroy. Its smile widened as I struggled for air. This thing would bring annihilation and nothing could stop it. For there is no God, foolish reader. The one thing that comes close is the Faceless.

I dangled in its grip, the scales scraping my neck and claws puncturing my skin. I scrambled against the Faceless’ grip in vain, my lungs screaming for air.

I count us all lucky. The Faceless did not seek to destroy or annihilate. It did not concern itself with the pitiful creatures that inhabited this world. Except two, at that very moment. I scarcely remember being released from the Faceless, willing to do whatever it bid me do. It gave an order. I picked up the knife and strode for the young woman that had witnessed the whole thing. She didn’t seem shocked, which I should’ve taken to realize that she had seen this all happen before. I reached her. She didn’t try to run. “I’m sorry!” I cried to her. “But I don’t have a choice!”

I will regret now, what I have done, for the rest of my pitiful existence. I slid the wickedly curved blade between her ribs. Blood oozed over my hand as I watched the life drain from the lass’s eyes. I released her and stared. Her hair pooled around her head, framing it against the ground and looking, for all the worlds, like the blood that seeped from the gaping wound I’d made. Her brown eyes lost their vibrancy and the simple dress gave contrast to the darkness around her and did its best to hide the wound. I spun to face the Faceless.

“I wish to leave,” I said. But it had vanished. The thing was gone. I looked down to the still form of the young woman. I cursed again and fled.

And now I reside here, in this apartment, away from those farms, but the insanity followed me. I am committed, now, and that gives me clarity enough to form coherent sentences. I have been a raving madman for too long, and now I shall end it.

Goodbye.

This note was found in the deceased man’s apartment two hours after the body was discovered on the street outside at approximately 5 a.m. It appears that the late Martin Erakson threw himself out the window of his apartment on the fifth floor.