by Warren Benedetto
Maslowe stood absolutely still. Warm, rancid breath caressed the back of his neck.
It had come for him.
Mist swirled around the thing, enshrouding it like unholy vestments. It was shapeless. Formless. An undulating mass devoid of features, save for a terrible maw. Its blackened lips parted to reveal crystalline teeth, curved icicles dripping with long, elastic drops of clear ooze.
What escaped from its mouth was not sound, but the absence of sound. A silence so ageless and infinite that Maslowe felt his sanity slipping away.
“Why me?” Maslowe whispered.
“Because you exist,” the Devourer said.