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Demons in my Sleep

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<a href="/en/translator/vladimir4757" class="userpopupinfo username" rel="user1407413">Vladimir4757</a>
Joined: 31.12.2018
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 Here's an interesting one, I'm not sure what this abstract mess is but it's based on Бесы в Моих Снах by Krematoriy, and when I say abstract, I mean I went to some weird nightmare realm to come up. Very stylistic, vaugue and in second person semi-omniscent narrator. Yes, second person POV! With a semi-omniscient narrator! Enjoy this mess! I really hope you enjoyed this and if you have any suggestions please give them! I'm still working on the second half of Sun in a Silver Platter, and on my youtube channel I plan on ready the story but for right now, I hope you enjoy!
              Wandering aimlessly, chased by hounds, in a forest of thick witch hazel, you run, you dash, you dart. Breathing, panting, your breath falls as darkness kisses your eyes. You faint, you awake, where are you? In a clearing? Somehow, you’re safe, the hounds gone, where did they go? They howl in the dark, beckoning to their brothers so far away. But as you stumble, gasping for air, the smell rank, clinging to your lungs. Gasping, breathing, hurrying, blood rushing, you clamber to your feet before you realize before you three black clad women with gnarly skin and beady eyes, wearing crooked witches’ hats and at their side brooms made of sorghum. Before them a large pot, roaring, bubbling, screaming with vile anger.
              “Three feet of dog, two hair of cat. One branch of cedar, strip and blanched!” They chanted, throwing in ingredients to the pot.
“Four leaves of ivy, two clovers of garlic, a heart of fox, blood of wolf.” They continued to chant.
“May Moloch be born from this pot!” They chanted once more, as a large explosion shattered the pot, and a witch clad in brown arose from the fluids. She was tall and lanky, thin and frail, and yet so powerful.
“Mortal born of dreams so old, in hell you are, but dead you’re not!” She said like a riddle, cackling as she spoke.
“Wh-w-where am I?” You chant, you murmur, you look in horror as the witch towers above you.
“Your dreams, where you wish you weren’t!” Moloch chants as she stares you down.
“Who are you?” You beg, hoping for mercy.
“Moloch, born of hate, made of fear, a God to Mortals, Subjugate to the Devil!” She continued to hiss as she towers over you.
              And before you, the hounds arrive, they were snarling, growling, aggressively chomping at the bits. The witches, all dressed to the nines, cackled menacingly, with the hounds sitting at their feet. You stand to the left of them, you stand afraid. Shivers run your spine as you choke on your breath. And smoke rises from the shattered remains of the pot, where you see the remaining liquids come to life, forming a black cat that hisses at you, before skittering up the back and upon the shoulder of Moloch. Breathing faintly, they stare at you, without a single word.
“Here you’re unwelcomed, here, you are no friend of Moloch.” The witches said in unison.
“Why am I here?”
“Dreams take you places, sometimes they take you to your nightmares.” Moloch responded. And with some otherworldly magic she began to reassemble the pot, and as she did so, the cat meowed, with the dogs barking.
              But as they looked, they watched the sky crack violently.
“Two liters of the blood of a thousand horses, five bones of jackals.” Moloch started, throwing in ingredients into the pot.
“Five hairs of werewolf, three shavings of unicorn horn.” They said together.
“From the ashes of Hell, let the Angels of Sin sing!” They continued.
“Words of violence, Speeches of Hatred. Words of Woe, and Neglect.” They went on, as the pot began to violently shake.
“Two leaves of witch hazel, skin of snake.”
“Other worldly words of wisdom, let the three angels awake!”
              And before your eyes a crooked house appeared, directly to your right. It was made of cobbled stones and poor dirty mortar. The walls were derelict, the windows shattered, and from the back wall was a tall, jagged chimney, piercing the sky. Smoke billowed into the crack in the heavens, as black cherubs with red eyes circled above. Their harps were violent, ear piercing and foul. The sound of violins shattering and guitar strings tearing, they sung, words unknown, to a God unknown.
“Enter the house and meet your past, your present and your future.” Moloch snarled with a foul breath coming from her crooked toothed mouth.
“W-why?” You murmur, afraid, almost cowardly.
“Sometimes things happen, somethings scary, something unsettling! Sometimes it’s because of you!” They cackled.
              A bolt of lightening and the clap of thunder, a flash of light and without a blink they were gone. The four witches vanished, all that remained as a black cat, with piercing green eyes. The hounds were gone too, and the forest clearing seemingly disappeared. All that was left was you, the black cat and the crooked house in the woods. From the house you could hear a choir of sorts. A beautiful choir, distinct and fluid. You approach the door, and before you can knock, the door creaks open aggressively, and you enter without hesitation. As you enter you see three people before you. The room began to melt, as they continued to sing. You listen carefully, watching them. One of them was shaven, one of them was bearded, and the other one was clean.
              All melding together in a world that was distorted. The three of them were you, and yet they were not. Somehow only two of them were there, but there was a third. That third one walked in, they walked in with you. When you entered, the third entered. And when they sung, you listened. You listened to them. Quietly, silently, you listened to them.
“Who are you?” You say, but they mock it back.
“Why?” They mock, and you say as well.
“What?” You say, and they mock it back.
“We are you.” They murmur in a beautiful voice full of poetry.
“I’m not you.” You say as they mock it back.
              Playing the harp, a flute, and you begin to sing. Quiet but rising, you feel your life being ripped from you.
“We are you.” You say with them.
“This is home.” You say with them.
“This isn’t home!” You shout but instead sing, and they go into choir, mocking your words.
“Who are you!” You try again but they continue to mock your words!
“This isn’t real!”
              But they look at you. You look at you. You look at them. They look at you. And the singing stops. The singing freezes. But the words continue. The Cherubs above continue to screech, continue to rape their instruments as the sky lights on fire.
“This is your home.” They say without you repeating.
“You are home. You are welcome here. We are welcome with you.” They resume.
“But I’ve never been here!” You beg to no avail.
“But you’re not supposed to be here. Because of you. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“What do you mean because of me?” You ask but they sing it back!
“You’re the reason, you are at fault! It’s because of you!” They say silently, letting the house disappear as Orion falls from the sky, landing before you.
              The famed hunter lands, made of stars, bright and alive. The hounds come back, and join him.
“What must we find than what is inside of us? Search for yourself, and you’ll kill it!” He boomed.
“What do you mean?” You beg, getting no response before he cackles.
“You know what you must do! Sing! Sing with them! Sing for the hunt! Beckon to the Skies! Let God know what you’re capable of!”
“What? What are you talking about?” You try to reason.
“The hounds search for food! We must go!” He shouts, and disappears into the woods, the sky still ablaze. And as you stare into the heavens, Orion returns, taking you with him.
“Come with me! For we must hunt! Hunt!” He says, and the two of you walk off into the forest.
              But what were you doing here? Why are you here? What is your purpose? Here you are, in this mysterious zone, full of wonder. And Orion hunts his prey with you in tow. Tell me, what are you besides a pawn? Is this all real? You ponder to yourself.
“Where are we going?” You call out as the dogs sniff violently, tracking prey unknown.
“We must find our prey! He lives in the fires of Hell!”
“Who lives in the fires of hell?” You shout but Orion ignores you as the forest turns to rock. A black stone, a volcanic stone. The sky turned red, and the air became heavy.
“This is where our journey ends!” Orion shouts, bowing.
“The prey is before you! Carry forth and you’ll be free!”
              And as the sky fades your eyes begin to shut once again.
“Oh no!” You shout, fading out.
“Not again!” You beg, uncertain of what is going on. Before you a black void, an empty abyss, where you echo like a poltergeist. But your eyes come to, and you see the world before you. And then they shut, the void returns, and a figure awaits you. Hooded, cladded in black, masked with a scythe, they await on a wooden rowboat. But you come to, one more, panting heavily, begging for God’s mercy. And as you fade, you are in the ferry. Charon guides you as you begin to come to. And laying in a field you look up, burning bright in the sky is Orion as your eyes shut, the sounds of witches cackling and dogs howling echoing as your hearing turns to ringing, and the blackness returns. Only you and Charon.
“What brings you here mortal?” He asks politely as you look into his empty eye sockets.
“It’s because of me.”
              Charon begins to row, the black void turning to blue a river in the abyss. The water drips over the sides, flowing into the abyss. Below you the souls of the damned await, clambering at the helm.
“You’re a mortal. Not a dead one.” Charon says.
“What do you mean I’m a mortal?”
“You’re still alive. Here you’d be immortal.” Charon cackled, carefully rowing his boat.
“But you’re welcome to stay, forever. Eternity is how we weigh your payment.
“But I must leave here! I was in a forest!”
“Yes, you were.” Charon sighs, continuing to row.
“So return me to the realm of the living!” You beg.
              Charon only laughs, rowing as the abyss becomes blood red.
“Here we only row down.” Charon says begrudgingly.
“But why? Why?” You try to reason.
“Because, it is the only way isn’t it? The water flows down, so we go down.”
“But the fires, I cannot be seeing fire!”
“It’s because of you. You are the reason, aren’t you?” Charon says, continuing to paddle as the river turns to blood.
“Here you are home. This is your home.”
              And you look ahead as the ship comes to a halt. Before you was a towering beast, frozen in bloody ice from the center of his chest on down. He was a giant, a massive behemoth. Under his chin were the wings of a bat, and he had the head of a man, a goat and a lion. In his mouth he chewed upon the great sinners. And in his hands were corpses, turning to ash as he munched, as he crunched, as he devoured their souls.
“We have arrived.” Charon said, and you step out of the boat.
“Where are we?”
“Hell.” Charon says bluntly, turning around and heading upstream.
“It’s my fault.” You say to yourself, as you look the devil in the eyes.
“I’m here because of me!” You shout out, as the beast looks at you, as ash begins to be blown against you from the beating of it’s wings.
“I’m here because of me!” You shout once more, as the beast begins to laugh, and with it, you laugh too. Covered in ash, you hear the cackle of Moloch, the howling hounds, the Cherubs playing, and the fallen angels sing as you and the Beast turn to ash.

Russian asset
<a href="/en/translator/schnurrbrat" class="userpopupinfo username" rel="user1414669">Schnurrbrat</a>
Joined: 07.03.2019

I'm glad that someone still listens to Grigoryan. And I liked your descriptions of witches and stuff.
One of them was shaven, one of them was bearded, and the other one was clean.
Первый всадник был глух, а второй был как ночь, третий был слеп, а четвертым всадником Была смерть!

<a href="/en/translator/vladimir4757" class="userpopupinfo username" rel="user1407413">Vladimir4757</a>
Joined: 31.12.2018

That is where the story starts to divert itself a bit. I got the symbolism of the three men, and i could've gone with fourth, but seeing Death appeared as Charon later on, it felt more neccessary to go abstract. To me in this story the three men were all the reader at different stages of their life, though I was torn on going closer to the three men as they were intended to be. I'm glad you enjoyed though, this was a fun one to write and am considering doing maybe Botanist? Ботиника was my most favorite album from Grigoryan and it is because of that song and Сон ни о Чём, with both being candidates for a story from me. There are few English songs i might do as well (Of Monster's and Men Little Talks, Modset Mouse Dashboard or Float On, possibly Paint it Black? Not sure, but will come up with something).