House of Rot - Other Terrain Literary Journal

By PJ Petraitis

To my pupil and friend, or to anyone given the right to the Holy Archives, the following are the last known writings of famed author and poet W—- K—-W—- K—-before his death in W—- K—-27 in his hometown of W—- K—-after it was cleansed of the Unholy Rot. The documents were found in the remains of his dwellings on W—- K—- Street, where he had lived for most of his life. Though W. K. was a renowned writer with tremendous skill, he was also well known for the rumours of his proclivity for heathen magick. For this reason, he was not given an official memorial. As such, his property has defaulted to that of the Holy Archives, lest they be found to have some latent power.

The first document is a short story depicting the history of a house told in vignettes. The second appears to be a letter, which acts as an unofficial last will and testament. I have made notes for context that I hope will be useful.

Bear in mind that while these documents were found in the remains of a house cleansed of Unholy Rot, the fact that they survived means they may not be fully cleansed. Make sure to keep the documents in their two biohazard-labelled zip lock bags. If the document must be removed for any reason, follow all safety protocols, including wearing gloves and a mask.

May He protect you from all liars,

A House of Ash lies in a village of debris. It has memories of family, warm dinners, and loud conversations around the table.

In an old, burnt dresser, there is a precious locket. If you were to open it, you would find a picture of a kind-faced woman. A mother. A wife. Like the House, she is ash now, as is the rest of her family. But, lo! They have nothing to fear, as they have been cleansed of their unholiness. That which threatened to leave them without rest. That which would have left them unscarred and free from the hands of those who may come to love them.[1]

A House of Rot sits in a village of plague. A family lives inside, although they are all slowly dying.

Last week’s newspaper had told them their God would protect them. It was a lie—or their God had abandoned them. Or maybe their God was never there for them at all.[2] Their youngest daughter wonders why her mother has stopped singing to her. The father of the house lets out his final coughs.

A House of Bricks stands tall in a leafy village. Surrounded by green trees and flowing water. The stones that make up its structure are held up by heavy oak[3], felled by the father of the House.

Inside the House is the smell of roast chicken, onions, and potatoes. A cornucopia of familial warmth made into the pleasant aroma of a celebratory dinner. The middle son is engaged and has brought his betrothed to meet the family. He tells a humorous anecdote of one of their early dates, and the House is filled with the cacophonous laughter of a family of six.[4]

A House of Iron pierces the sky of the capital. The imposing black walls absorb all light and warmth.

A dead God lives inside. Its many eyes and hands recite prayers while they scrutinise and judge other houses. A single point of their finger and a House of Bricks is a House of Rot, is a House of Ash.[5]

A House of Insects is perched precariously on a cliff. Its compound eyes overlook a small fishing village. Inside, the House is in constant motion. The floors and walls are alive with the chattering of innumerable legs and pincers. It is the only thing to stand in opposition to the creeping eyes of the House of Iron, which casts its own eyes out into the world. They reflect the darkness back. It does not destroy; it only changes.

To my friend, Infusa,[6]

When you read this letter, you will not be you. Of this, I am confident. You will have also noticed that I am gone. Be happy for me. I have not died; I am by your side now as I write this letter. But you will not see me until you are you, and you will not be you for several more years.

The Church has infected W—- K—- with their so-called Unholy Rot.[7] Strange that this Rot only seems to infest towns known to harbour the likes of us heathens. The utter contempt they hold for us knows no bounds. However, we mustn’t fear them. Nor should we try to fight back in their ways. As you now know—by my side—and will know in many years, their weakness is their lack of understanding. We do not need to fight them. We must only show them the truth about their wor-[8]

[1] Not a name, as far as I can tell. Though some careful spying through the archives has led to Agrotis Infusa, an old-science name for a species of moth. I would not jump to such a conclusion if not for the rumours surrounding W.K.’s proclivity for the Unholy—but, in light of them, this seems to confirm such rumours.

[2] Once again: BASELESS CONSPIRACY THEORIES. While I can be sure that anyone reading this knows well enough that these rumours are untrue, I feel it bears repeating. I must emphasise how often these rumours come up and how much you must push against them. We know what is true, and we must be clear in our messaging. The Worm does not spread disease and famine. Unholy Rot comes from a rotting of the soul, something that heathenistic morals and beliefs cultivate without end.

[3] The letter is smudged beyond recognition past here. Whether Rot has gotten into the paper, or the heathen fool carelessly spilled his ink across the page like so many of his ‘poems’ is anyone’s guess. Regardless, the contents of the letter are most likely insignificant. The unimportant ravings of a two-bit poet with a brain infected by Rot in an unimportant town infected by Rot.

To any archivist that may be reading, I hope my notes were useful. I have tried my best to unpack this mess of words, although I imagine there is not much to gather from this that you would not already know. Do not feel that it would be an imposition to send for me if you believe I may be able to shed light on anything I have missed.

To my pupil, Hirudinea, I show this to you as a lesson. The heathens are our adversaries, yet they are no threat to us. In these documents, there is nothing but flowery language, baseless accusations, and the narcissistic belief that mere people could have a better idea of the world and its many wonders than The Worm. That said, do not ever let them trick you into believing that they are peaceful. On the contrary, they declare war on nature itself by their very being, and for that reason, we must become soldiers.

[1] It may be an overreach on my part; nevertheless, I felt I should mention that six is often thought of as an Unholy number. Whether its use here is intentional or merely the product of coincidence, it is worth pointing out.

[2] You are no doubt aware of the unfounded (and Unholy!) rumours that Unholy Rot is somehow spread by the Church in some sort of show of power. Like the Unholy Rot itself, heathens spread this rumour far and wide to sow resentment of the Church. For advice on how to destroy these lies where they stand, please see the pamphlet Lies of the Unholy that can be found at most Saint’s cathedrals.

[1] Heathens tend to misunderstand—or intentionally mislead—the way that the Unholy use the term “love.” While it may seem daft to even consider, they see love as an act of destruction. Not just of the Church but of the entire world: all in the name of ‘wiping the slate clean,’ so to speak. They believe that the world has been lied to and that their Winged One will come for them if they stay true. Of course, it always leads to rot and death. For more information on this, I recommend reading the Archive’s own documents on The Unholy, especially the study Love and Death: An Anthropological Study of Unholy Thoughts by Dr Jeremy Clancy.

[2] If this paragraph doesn’t read to you as an admittance of Unholy guilt, then I do not know what you would need.

[3] This seems to be describing W.K.’s house. Built in the years following the Last War by his great, great grandfather, who was a renowned author in his own right. Rather than poetry and adult fiction, he focussed on fables and novellas for children.

[4] It may be an overreach on my part; nevertheless, I felt I should mention that six is often thought of as an Unholy number. Whether its use here is intentional or merely the product of coincidence, it is worth pointing out.

[5] You are no doubt aware of the unfounded (and Unholy!) rumours that Unholy Rot is somehow spread by the Church in some sort of show of power. Like the Unholy Rot itself, heathens spread this rumour far and wide to sow resentment of the Church. For advice on how to destroy these lies where they stand, please see the pamphlet Lies of the Unholy that can be found at most Saint’s cathedrals.

[6] Not a name, as far as I can tell. Though some careful spying through the archives has led to Agrotis Infusa, an old-science name for a species of moth. I would not jump to such a conclusion if not for the rumours surrounding W.K.’s proclivity for the Unholy—but, in light of them, this seems to confirm such rumours.

[7] Once again: BASELESS CONSPIRACY THEORIES. While I can be sure that anyone reading this knows well enough that these rumours are untrue, I feel it bears repeating. I must emphasise how often these rumours come up and how much you must push against them. We know what is true, and we must be clear in our messaging. The Worm does not spread disease and famine. Unholy Rot comes from a rotting of the soul, something that heathenistic morals and beliefs cultivate without end.

[8] The letter is smudged beyond recognition past here. Whether Rot has gotten into the paper, or the heathen fool carelessly spilled his ink across the page like so many of his ‘poems’ is anyone’s guess. Regardless, the contents of the letter are most likely insignificant. The unimportant ravings of a two-bit poet with a brain infected by Rot in an unimportant town infected by Rot.