Diadrostatisk...that was the dreaded word that foretold an individual's demise if uttered.
It has been officially two weeks today since we found it. Please have mercy on those who have perished as victims of whatever fiendish malevolence that has been unleashed upon us.
It was impossible for us survivors to predict who might be digested next. Yet, it is tempting to use the term 'slain' under such circumstances as the ones I try to describe.
People might misinterpret these happenings as disgusting and brutal killings that have gradually remoulded our town more and more uninhabitable,
discouraging us from ever entering our supposedly safe homes again.
The violence I speak of has become an occurrence in which my local townsfolk have developed the use of the term 'digested' to describe the similarities of each individual's cause of death.
The first victim was nestled ordinarily in their bed; however, his wife awoke to discover the change in his skin colour from normal to ghostly pale.
The cause of this being later revealed as exsanguination. Except this was no ordinary expiry. From a loss of blood that significant, a corpse would regularly be expected to turn blue.
Regardless, this body had been completely extracted of every drop of blood within; and no wounds were present on the flesh. In addition to this, it was found that the brain had been removed.
Inside, the severed end of the spinal cord had shrivelled up dry at the top of the neck.
However, the outwardly impossible issue with this discovery was that the skull was still perfectly intact despite the extraction of the brain.
Any doctor we have in town has remained utterly mystified with this predicament.
Gulrakha has operated for years as an innocent Indian town due to its modest accommodation set perfectly parallel in many lined streets over a large area.
Nevertheless, far beneath our feet runs a honeycombed map of mining tunnels. These being a popular working option for a majority of the easy-going locals.
An adequate turnover it may produce, but it was enough to keep the town's finances balanced comfortably.
Amidst the mass of newly blasted passageways is where it was hidden.
This finding sat boldly as if it had been waiting patiently for us in a small, yet spacious cavern when the beams of our torches revealed its possibly deliberate concealment.
However, you can imagine our excitement to unravel the entombment of an ancient statue. No suspicion arose as a result.
Erosive patches from the cave's dampness and humidity indicated that this unique piece of craftsmanship had been buried for centuries.
The bodily deformities demonstrated the destructive potential of nature. My co-workers and I happened to describe this statue all in a very similar nature.
That firstly being the lacking of a face; just a flat, curved carving of stone where it should have been. The body reminded us of an incompatible combination between a lion and a panther.
Furthermore, the tail that firstly appeared regular to the unsuspecting held the noticeable addition of an end that presented itself as a bladelike tip.
A swipe of that might just as well unzip a man should the statue be a living beast.
The slow, undetectable massacre began whilst I lay restlessly in bed that very evening.
Throughout my transfer to the dream world, I attempted to focus on anything content my imagination could display.
Although any interruptions were currently soft, an unexplainable pitch of sound was eventually becoming more perceptible within my exposed ear.
I tossed and turned; nothing could block out the minute bother.
Suddenly, I realised what I had been muttering as I breathed in and out.
How long the repetition had lasted I couldn't say.
I shot-up in the bed. I was baffled as to what was making me utter that bizarre word. And once I decided to lay back down again, I listened, concentrating for the second it came out again.
However, nothing disturbed my forced consciousness for the rest of the night.
My distress deteriorated further when I returned to the mine the following day. I decided to inform my co-workers through a gap of casual conversation about the word I involuntarily spoke.
A reaction came I could never have expected. It was an angry tension that I think was created by a selected few of the group by their fear of admitting what in reality had occurred.
Indeed it would be an understatement to say I was stunned when four of them confessed to either speaking that word by accident or hearing it in a dream.
Regardless, we were all suffering the same dilemma; none of us could provide a solution as to the origins of this word.
It possessed a lingering fear that prevented us from barely speaking to one another for most of the day.
Moreover, when a social conversation eventually came about, we all agreed to not speak of that word again.
That was the evening when the first death was reported.
The outwardly impracticable procedure had indeed been performed on the body; no scientist or doctor could theorise a possible answer as to how a man falls asleep in perfect health and
is 'digested' without ever moving from his bed. That and no spillage of blood was left on the sheets.
The creepiest attack on the body was revealed through a leak gained by a nosy journalist who'd bribed one of the autopsy surgeons to talk.
This report claimed that once the undamaged skull had been opened to prove the brain as missing,
an inscription was discovered to have been scraped crudely into the bone behind the forehead area. That inscription read 'Diadrostatisk'.
That small amount of us already aware of the word had become fearful of such a connection the moment we heard of 'unusual' circumstances relating to this death due to our
own mysterious experiences.
Falling asleep became a more apprehensive cycle every night. When the morning arrived, another death would be announced. The same procedures on the body, the same inscription.
If only I had noticed the pattern beginning to form much earlier on. The key was the identity of every newly announced death.
I eventually realised that every individual who has perished had assisted in the removal of the statue.
A couple of days ago, I managed to convince my superiors to grant me access to the warehouse where the statue was being housed. I spoke nothing of my suspicions.
Instead, I put forward a false story about the interests of an archaeologist who had approached me and wished to see a few photographs of the find before making any further contact.
My visit was quickly approved.
However, the external developments I was surprised with after pulling back the sheet couldn't quite classify the sculpture to be a statue anymore.
The reason for this being the chosen material was no longer stone. Instead, a roughish integument had given the creature a more life-like appearance.
The material reminded me of the potholed composition of a walnut shell. And I couldn't help but toy with the suggestion that the physical build appeared more intimidating.
The deaths of my co-workers had to be connected to this sculpture; I was completely adamant.
I intended to plead with my employers for either the destruction of the statue or the placement back into the solitude of the caves.
However, a voice suddenly spoke to me whilst I gazed into its faceless stare.
It was an aggressive croak that hissed a warning in my ear, yet I knew nothing of the language that it spoke. Nevertheless, an instinctive sensation specified what it was telling me.
I should leave it alone. Something diabolical was very near ready to be unleashed upon mankind.
Whatever was controlling this transfer wanted me to learn about it first, relishing my fear and feebleness.
And the minute part of myself that remained intact has been reduced to a sub-conscious storage of morality which is being entirely dominated.
Nothing of my newly found knowledge was permitted to be shared with the rest of my kind.
I now know my time is running short.
Before that remaining segment of my personality is eaten by this thing, I must record my own personally developed theory as to what monstrosity is attacking Gulrakha.
However, I must be careful; I'm sure I'm being watched. As I sit at my desk writing this, all I want to scribble or scream incessantly is that feared word.
Indeed, it is killing a lot of strength to put down anything else.
The 'thing' my company discovered appears to be of an alien or demonically spiritual origin. This would explain the abrupt presence of a language unlike anything humanity has ever heard.
Furthermore, the statue we removed from the mine was never even a statue.
We unearthed a mutated beast frozen in a state of starved paralysis, a type of hibernation for survival, to put it otherwise.
Everyone who assisted in its disturbance has developed a kind of telepathic attachment, except they appear unaware of this.
I believe the stronger the bond grows between victims, the faster the weakened life force is drained.
And that is what these changes to its appearance indicate; it is waking up.
Everybody who it has digested began speaking the creature's name uncontrollably once it had total control of its victim. The individual effectively becomes a part of the creature.
And all of those workers who have died have been a contribution towards a process to reconstruct this life form as a whole.
I believe myself to be that missing link that will I regret to say complete that process. Resurrection is inevitable by this point.
I can feel it trying to force its way through...I won't let it!
The beast is coming for me! I'm so sorry, whoever reads this, please know I tried!
I heard something outside. A snarling outside my window! It's here! Diadrostatisk! Diadro...