14th of August, some year that don’t feel right anymore (time’s all outta whack here, man)
This ain’t no smoky jazz club, no sir. This jam session’s happening on a sandbar in the middle of Chateaugay Lake – pristine, untouched, used to be a summer haven for the Abenaki folks for centuries. Now? It’s a ghost town, thanks to these bozos.
See, these ain’t your regular run-of-the-mill monsters. These are Wendigo saxophonists, all lanky limbs and antlers that snag the moonlight like crooked radio antennas. Skin stretched tight over bones that clack out a sick beat. But the real kicker? Their horns. Black as sin, obsidian saxophones pulsing with a sickly green glow, just like those damn monoliths that showed up outta nowhere.
The Wendy-Goons Hog the Best Gig in Town
They wail and screech, a cacophony that makes even the crickets take cover. This ain’t no cool bop, no respect for the swing. It’s pure dissonance, a nightmare blues that tells the story of the Chronophage’s feast, the way it twists and corrupts everything it touches. These jerks chased the Abenaki people away with their racket, turning their sacred summer spot into a personal jam room. Greedy bastards.
Lost in the Catcalls of the Night
My own thoughts get tangled in the racket. Memories turn into fractured chords, fadin’ in and out with the rhythm of gnashing teeth and tortured screams. Reality and this twisted jam session all blur together. Am I just a witness to this nightmare, or another horn in their infernal orchestra?
A Desperate Solo to Break the Curse
My hand clutches my trusty pocket trumpet, a beacon of sanity in this mad symphony. It’s a relic from a different life, a defiant cry against the Chronophage’s twisted melody. The notes ain’t perfect, shaky and off-key, a pale echo of the chops I used to have. But there’s a fight in the sound, a refusal to be swallowed whole by this cosmic hunger.
A Ghostly Coltrane Echo in the Moonlight
For a heartbeat, the Wendy-Goons falter. Their eyes flicker with somethin’ like surprise. A blue note hangs in the air, heavy and thick – a piece of a John Coltrane solo, a melody from a time before the Chronophage’s corruption. It’s a fleeting moment of connection, a shred of humanity clinging to the tattered fabric of their existence. Maybe… just maybe… the Abenaki spirits are reachin’ out, tryin’ to guide us out of this mess.
The Jam Session Crashes
The music unravels, turnin’ into pure discord. The Wendy-Goons writhe, their bodies contortin’ in pain. Maybe they ain’t just monsters, but victims of this cosmic hunger just like me. Maybe… just maybe… we can blow a different tune together, a song that honors the spirits of this land, appease the Chronophage, and find a way outta this temporal prison? Or is that just another trick, another layer of this nightmare designed to break me?
The Score Goes Blank…
The green light throbs, gettin’ brighter, bathin’ everything in an unholy glow. The air crackles with anticipation. The Chronophage hungers. The Wendy-Goons shift, their horns poised for another round. The damn journal slips outta my grip, lost in the madness. Whether I make it outta here, whether this fragmented story ever gets heard… who knows? All I know is the Chronophage’s feast ain’t over, and the beat goes on…
…But the beat goes on, maybe in a different key, a melody that honors the spirits of the land.
(A faint melody lingers in the air, a bluesy riff that whispers of John Coltrane and whispers of the Abenaki people.)
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?