From the Personal Diary of Joscelin Holloway
I find myself in the peculiar position of having to reconstruct events through the hazy veil of what mortals call a "hangover" - a state I had previously observed only in the writhing masses during certain Bacchanalian rituals. The throbbing in my temporal lobe bears an unsettling resemblance to the pulsing of the Heart of Yog-Sothoth, though considerably less pleasant.
It began innocently enough at what Toby called a "Christmas party" - though any gathering where humans voluntarily festoon their dwellings with crystallized water formations and deceased evergreen vegetation already suggests a certain predisposition toward madness. I had carefully selected an outfit that subtly violated three laws of physics and applied makeup that contained crushed minerals from dimensions that technically don't exist.
The moment we crossed the threshold of the house (through the door, as Toby insisted, rather than through the perfectly serviceable void portal I'd offered to create), we were assaulted by the cacophony of mortal revelry and the scent of cinnamon - a spice I've always suspected of having trans-dimensional properties.
"Toby! You made it!" A man with what I can only describe as aggressively normative facial features emerged from the crowd. I recognized him as Mike from Accounting, though only because Toby had shown me photos, not because I'd seen his name written in the cosmic ledger.
"Hey Mike!" Toby's face lit up with that peculiar warmth that still does uncomfortable things to my auxiliary circulatory systems. "This is Joscelin Holloway, the one I was telling you about."
Mike's wife Sarah appeared beside him, her eyes lighting up with an interest that reminded me uncomfortably of the way certain elder beings regard particularly promising sacrifices. "Oh, this is the elusive Miss Holloway?" She smiled, shooting her husband a look that contained multitudes of meaning. "The one who's been making our Toby so... happy lately?"
I noticed the slight emphasis she placed on the word 'happy' - a tone that suggested conversations had been had, theories proposed, perhaps even bets placed. I attempted to establish dominance by subtly manifesting an extra set of eyes, but she seemed more interested in my choice of shoes.
"Listen," Mike said, clapping Toby on the shoulder, "you've got to come settle an argument. Remember that client presentation from last month? The one with the quarterly projections?"
"Oh no," Toby's face clouded with concern as he glanced at me. "I should really..."
"Don't be silly," Sarah interjected with suspicious quickness. "I'll take good care of Joscelin. Introduce her to everyone." Her smile widened fractionally. "In fact, I know several people who are dying to meet her."
I noticed her choice of words - 'dying' being a state I'm intimately familiar with in all its multidimensional variations. There was something in her expression that suggested ulterior motives, like a cat who has not only found the cream but has developed a sophisticated investment strategy for it.
"Are you sure?" Toby asked me, his genuine concern making several of my non-euclidean appendages flutter. "I won't be long."
"She'll be fine," Sarah assured him, already looping her arm through mine with a familiarity that would have caused lesser beings to experience spontaneous molecular redistribution. "I'll introduce her to the girls. We'll get her a drink, make her feel right at home."
The glimmer in her eye suggested she had plans - mortal, mundane plans, but plans nonetheless. I later learned that Sarah had been conducting what she called a "reconnaissance mission" ever since Toby first mentioned me at work. Apparently, my effect on him had been noticeable enough to spark considerable interest among his social circle. Sarah, it seemed, had appointed herself chief investigator into the mystery of the woman who had captured their determinedly normal friend's attention.
"Go on," I told Toby, amused by the idea that these mortals thought they could unsettle one who had gazed into the void. "I'm quite capable of managing human social interactions." After all, I had successfully maintained my cover as a normal person for years, if you didn't count that incident with the mailman who now takes a different route and has developed an interesting tick whenever he sees geometric shapes.
As Toby reluctantly allowed Mike to lead him away, Sarah turned to me with an expression that reminded me of certain elder gods just before they spring particularly clever traps. "Now then," she said, reaching for a crystal punch bowl that shimmered with deceptively innocent clarity, "let's get you something to drink. And you simply must tell us everything about yourself. Toby's been so... intriguingly vague."
I realized, too late, that I had perhaps underestimated the cunning of suburban housewives. These women had organized bake sales, coordinated carpool schedules, and managed PTA meetings - they were not to be trifled with. Sarah's eyes held the gleam of someone who had orchestrated countless social interactions to her advantage, and I, who had communed with beings beyond time and space, was about to be outmaneuvered by a woman whose power lay in knowing exactly how much rum to add to a punch bowl to loosen traditionally reluctant tongues.
The first cup was deceptively innocent, much like the questions that accompanied it. Sarah poured with practiced precision, her hand lingering suspiciously over the cup.
"So," she began, "how did you and Toby meet?"
I explained about the coffee shop incident where I had been arranging the sugar packets into a pattern known to summon minor demons. "He thought I was creating art," I said, watching the punch ripple in ways that suggested more than mere liquid dynamics.
"How creative!" Sarah exclaimed, though her smile suggested she was just getting started. "Oh, your cup's getting low. Let me fix that."
The second cup came with a distinctly stronger aroma, though by then I was already feeling an unusual warmth in my typically void-cold extremities. A woman named Lisa leaned in, her eyes bright with curiosity.
"And what do you do for work?" she asked as Sarah topped off my drink, her hand now hovering noticeably longer over the cup.
"I assist in transitioning souls between dimensional planes," I replied, then caught myself. "That is to say, I work in my family's funeral home."
"Oh, that's so interesting!" Another woman - Karen? Kathy? - exclaimed. "It must be so... rewarding. More punch?"
By the third cup, I was aware of what they were doing. The rum's presence was as obvious as a Shoggoth at a tea party, but I found my usual cosmic detachment slipping. The questions grew bolder, and to my horror, I found myself actually enjoying the attention.
"So," Sarah asked, performing her increasingly unsubtle ritual with the punch bowl, "is it serious between you two?"
"Time is an illusion," I informed them, my cosmic pronunciations becoming decidedly less precise. "But I find myself increasingly disturbed by how often I think about his smile. It does things to my non-Euclidean appendages."
"Oh honey," Lisa patted my hand, "that's called being in love."
"Impossible," I declared, though several of my auxiliary appendages were blushing. "I am beyond such mortal... is there more punch?"
The fourth cup arrived with suspicious speed. By now, Sarah had abandoned any pretense of subtlety with the rum bottle.
"Have you two..." Karen/Kathy waggled her eyebrows in a way that transcended the need for actual words.
"We've shared several trans-dimensional experiences," I found myself saying, then giggled - actually giggled - as reality hiccuped around me. "Though he seems to think entering the void is just me being 'mysterious.'"
"But is he good to you?" Sarah pressed, her protective instincts towards Toby showing through. "Because if he's not..."
"He treats reality-bending horrors like adorable quirks," I sighed, several of my normally invisible tentacles manifesting to gesture expressively. "He called Czoth'Thax the Unfathomable 'kitty.'"
The fifth cup was more rum than punch, though by then I had lost all interest in maintaining dimensional stability. The women had formed a tight circle around me, their questions now flowing as freely as the alcohol.
"Do you love him?" Lisa asked directly, while Sarah performed what could only be described as a rum exorcism into my cup.
"I am an ancient being beyond mortal comprehension," I declared, though the effect was somewhat undermined by my swaying. "I have witnessed the birth and death of galaxies. I have read texts that drive men mad. I have... I have..." I lost my train of thought as one of my eyes drifted into another dimension. "I think I do," I whispered in horror. "He makes me feel human."
This admission was met with collective "awws" and another round of punch that I suspect was simply rum wearing punch's clothing.
"More importantly," Sarah leaned in conspiratorially, "does he love you?"
"He called my summoning circle 'artsy'," I said, my voice carrying harmonics that made the punch bowl resonate. "He thinks my tentacles are charming. He..." I had to pause as reality did something particularly wobbly. "He sees all my horrors and finds them endearing."
It was around this time that the punch bowl began showing visions of the void, though the women seemed to attribute this to the Christmas lights' reflection. Sarah was about to ask another question - and pour another drink that I suspect would have been purely rum - when Toby's return interrupted what had become less of an interrogation and more of a cosmic confessional.
"Hey, is everything..." Toby's voice trailed off as he took in the scene before him. I imagine it was quite a sight - me, floating several inches above my chair (gravity had become more of a participatory sport than a law of physics by then), surrounded by entranced women, while the punch bowl behind us swirled with visions of the void.
"Toby!" I attempted to manifest my most normal smile, though judging by several gasps, I may have accidentally displayed teeth from multiple dimensions simultaneously. "We were just discussing the meaninglessness of temporal existence and whether you've considered meeting my grandfather's collection of bound souls."
"I think," he said carefully, reaching out to gently guide me back into actual contact with my chair, "maybe we should sit down for a bit."
"The chair keeps moving," I informed him seriously. "It's being very uncooperative about maintaining a fixed position in space-time."
"She's hilarious," Sarah interjected, though I noticed she was very carefully moving the punch bowl out of my reach. "You didn't tell us she was so... entertaining."
"Some water might be good," Toby suggested, his hand warm and steadying on my shoulder as I attempted to keep my auxiliary appendages from manifesting visibly.
"Oh, we have iced tea," one of the women offered helpfully. Looking back, I should have been suspicious of how quickly she volunteered this information.
"That's fine, whatever," Toby nodded, still focused on keeping me from drifting ceiling-ward.
The iced tea arrived in a tall glass that seemed to contain liquid existing in multiple quantum states simultaneously. The first sip was deceptively refreshing, though it made colors taste interesting.
"This doesn't taste like any tea I've had in this dimension," I observed, taking another sip. Reality began to develop interesting fractal patterns around the edges.
By the third sip, I was explaining to Toby how his eyes reminded me of the wells of infinity, though I think what actually came out was something about pools of forever with nice eyelashes.
Halfway through the glass, the room had begun to rotate in geometrically impossible ways. "The furniture is rearranging itself according to non-Euclidean principles," I informed Toby, who was becoming increasingly concerned as I began speaking in tongues - actual tongues, I'm afraid, which were manifesting in the air around my words.
"Maybe we should slow down on the tea," he suggested, reaching for the glass.
"The tea," I announced with all the gravity I could muster while gravity itself was becoming theoretical, "is telling secrets about the universe." I took another long drink, and the universe decided to start speaking in colors.
Three-quarters through, I was explaining how linear time was a construct, though by then I was experiencing several different timelines simultaneously and none of them were particularly linear.
"Did you know," I confided in Toby, my words leaving trailing echoes in at least three dimensions, "that your smile causes temporal anomalies? Small ones. Pleasant ones. Like time hiccups but with butterflies."
The final sip of the Long Island iced tea - a name I would later learn with considerable chagrin - was the tipping point where reality decided to exercise its right to clock out early. The last thing I clearly remember is attempting to explain to Toby how his fundamental normalcy was a form of cosmic horror all its own, though what actually emerged was probably closer to "you're scary pretty in a nice way."
Then darkness claimed me - not the familiar, comfortable darkness of the void, but the peculiarly mortal darkness of alcohol-induced unconsciousness. I have a vague recollection of Toby catching me as I began to phase through my chair (literally, I fear), and some confused impressions of him apologizing to our hosts while I mumbled incantations that were thankfully too slurred to actually tear holes in reality.
I awoke in my own bed, my head hosting what felt like a convention of Elder Things. The familiar sight of my bedroom ceiling - with its slow-moving constellation of eyes that track my movements - offered little comfort. The throbbing behind my temples kept time with the pulsing of the phosphorescent fungi that creep along my Victorian crown molding, their glow particularly harsh this morning.
Toby sat in my grandfather's favorite reading chair - an ornate piece whose stuffing consisted primarily of screaming souls and whose framework was crafted from bones of forgotten gods. He looked perfectly at ease, as though he couldn't hear the chair's occasional whimpers or feel the way it continuously rearranged its atomic structure. He had apparently been reading for some time, judging by how contentedly my grandfather's copy of the Necronomicon was sprawled open in his lap. The book, which typically tries to bite anyone who isn't of our bloodline, was actually preening under his attention, its pages fluttering in what I can only describe as delight whenever he turned them.
The rest of my bedroom carried on its usual morning routine - the wallpaper shifting through patterns that drive mathematicians to madness, the mirror on my vanity reflecting versions of reality that hadn't quite happened yet, and my collection of ritual daggers rearranging themselves according to their daily hierarchical power struggles. Toby seemed to notice none of this, or perhaps more disturbingly, found it all perfectly charming.
"Oh good, you're awake," he smiled, causing several of the shadow creatures that dwell in my corners to swoon visibly. "How are you feeling? I got you some aspirin from the kitchen. Your cat was very helpful."
By 'cat,' I realized he meant Vex'thulak, one of my grandfather's more successful experiments in tentacular manifestation who had taken up residence in my kitchen cabinets. The entity, which exists primarily as a mass of writhing tentacles with occasional eyes and teeth, had apparently played along with Toby's assumption of its feline nature. In fact, judging by the somehow smug undulations of the tentacle currently passing through my doorway, it had thoroughly enjoyed the interaction.
"The medicine cabinet was a bit tricky to find," Toby continued cheerfully, "but your cat showed me where it was. Though I've never seen a cat that could extend quite so many tentacles at once. Very efficient! And the way it kept manifesting eyes to wink at me was cute."
He gestured to my apartment's decor with genuine appreciation. The walls, which actively bleed a substance that defies spectral analysis, were currently going through their morning routine of rearranging their molecular structure. The portraits of my ancestors hung at angles that hurt the human mind to perceive, their subjects casually stepping between frames to visit each other. In the corner, my grandfather's collection of impossible geometries performed their daily calisthenics, bending space into shapes that Euclidean geometry never dreamed possible.
"Your decorating style is amazing," he commented, somehow interpreting the portal to the void behind my dresser as a clever use of shadows. "Very Victorian Gothic. Though you might want to get that leak in the ceiling checked - unless the crying walls are part of the aesthetic?"
I followed his gaze to where my ceiling was indeed weeping - though the liquid was actually the distilled essence of forgotten memories, not water. The diamond-shaped pattern in my wallpaper (which actually represents a formula for folding space-time) pulsed gently in time with my headache.
"The woodwork is incredible," he continued, admiringly eyeing the tentacles that serve as my crown molding. "The way it seems to move in the light - very clever design. And these little eyes in the corners are such unique details. They really follow you around the room!"
That's because they were actually following him around the room - my grandfather's security system has always been enthusiastically observant of guests. In fact, I noticed that several of the eyes had developed distinct hearts in their pupils while watching Toby. Even my eldritch surveillance system wasn't immune to his charm.
"Your cat - service cat? - left these on the nightstand," he said, offering me pills and water. The 'pills' were actually crystallized void essence, a family remedy for cosmic hangovers, while the 'water' came from a spring that exists in a dimension where hydrogen and oxygen have a completely different relationship. Vex'thulak had apparently decided to play pharmacist as well as housecat.
"So," Toby began, still absently stroking my grandfather's Necronomicon, which was now practically purring, "about last night. I should probably fill you in on a few things."
I braced myself, though the movement caused several dimensions to slosh uncomfortably in my head.
"First off, you're apparently an amazing magician," he said with genuine enthusiasm. "I had no idea! The kids at the party were absolutely mesmerized. Though maybe next time we should stick to card tricks instead of, um, what did you call them? 'Portals to the realms of geometric perfection'?"
"What exactly did I..." I began, then winced as my voice caused ripples in reality.
"Well, it started when little Emma Watson - Mike and Sarah's daughter - asked if you could do any magic tricks. You said, and I quote, 'Magic is merely the art of convincing reality to be more honest about its fluid nature.' Then you proceeded to pull a rabbit out of thin air."
"I opened a portal to the Sphere Dimension, didn't I?" I groaned.
"Is that what you call the trick? It was really impressive! Though the rabbit being perfectly round was an unusual touch. The kids loved it though - they spent an hour rolling it around like a ball. It changed back to normal rabbit shape eventually, which everyone thought was an amazing finale."
He shifted in the screaming chair, which let out what might have been a pleased sigh. "Then there was the galaxy trick. You told Sophie Miller you could see entire universes in her ears, and then you just... reached behind her ear and pulled out what looked like a swirling miniature galaxy. The parents thought it was some sort of advanced LED setup."
"That would have been the Andromeda Galaxy," I muttered. "It likes to show off for children."
"The parents were really impressed, especially when you let all the kids hold it. Though Mrs. Miller was a bit concerned about the way it seemed to whisper the secrets of creation. She thought it might be one of those new electronic toys with a speaker."
He leaned forward, his expression bright with remembered amazement. "But the best part was when you did the scarf trick. You know, the one where magicians pull endless scarves from their sleeve? Except yours were these incredible shifting colors that nobody could quite describe. And I'm pretty sure some of them were moving on their own."
"Those weren't scarves," I said faintly. "Those were temporal ribbons. The fabric of time itself."
"Really committed to the act, weren't you? Even when you started floating. Great wire work, by the way - couldn't even see the harness! Though maybe warn people next time before you start rotating your head 360 degrees. Mrs. Johnson nearly spilled her drink."
"And... the birthday party?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Oh right! The Millers were so impressed, they asked if you'd perform at Sophie's birthday party next Saturday. They're willing to pay your usual rate, which you apparently quoted as 'three drops of morning dew collected from a lily that bloomed in moonlight, or standard currency if the dew is unavailable.'"
I buried my face in my hands, causing several nearby dimensions to ripple sympathetically.
"Don't worry," he continued cheerfully, "They agreed to your standard rate of $200. Though Sophie's mom did say she'd try to collect the dew as well, just in case. She thinks you're really dedicated to the whole mystical persona. It's great character work!"
"Anything... else I should know about?"
"Well, you did try to teach the children the 'true names of colors that exist beyond the visible spectrum,' but they mostly just thought you were making up funny words. And there was that moment when you attempted to demonstrate how gravity is optional, but everyone thought the floating furniture was an impressive use of magnets."
He paused thoughtfully. "Oh, and you promised to show Sarah how to fold space-time so she could make her walk-in closet larger on the inside than the outside. She's very excited about that, by the way. Called it 'some next-level Marie Kondo organizing technique.'"
"I see," I said weakly.
"Don't worry though - you were a hit! Everyone kept saying how you're the most creative and committed performer they've ever seen. Though maybe for the birthday party, we should tone down the part where you open what you called 'windows into the void.' The glimpses of eternal darkness were very realistic, but we don't want to scare the younger kids."
I nodded mutely, causing only minimal disruption to the local space-time continuum.
"Also," he added with a gentle smile, "you might want to know that near the end of the night, you spent about twenty minutes telling everyone how much you like my smile because it 'makes reality feel less lonely.' That was really sweet, even if you did say it while hovering three feet off the ground."
I pulled the covers over my head, not to hide from the horrors of existence, but to conceal what I'm quite certain was a completely normal, utterly human blush. The bedsheets, which normally whispered secrets of the void, seemed traitorously intent on radiating my embarrassment instead. The worst part? I think I'm actually looking forward to that birthday party.
"You know," Toby's voice came from the direction of the screaming chair, warm with affection, "you don't have to hide. The way you connect with kids is really special. Even if your magic tricks do occasionally violate the laws of physics."
I peeked out from under the covers, several of my extra-dimensional eyes manifesting accidentally in my flustered state. "They're not tricks. They're fundamental manipulations of reality's underlying fabric."
"See? That's exactly what I mean," he grinned, completely unfazed by the way my extra eyes were all blinking at him in different dimensions simultaneously. "You make the impossible sound so matter-of-fact. It's kind of adorable."
"I am an ancient horror beyond mortal comprehension," I muttered into my pillow, which had begun to softly pulse with an ethereal glow in response to my heightened emotions. "I am not... adorable."
"Says the eldritch being who spent ten minutes last night teaching Emma how to make her stuffed animals float because, and I quote, 'gravity is really more of a polite suggestion than a rule.'" He leaned forward, his smile doing unspeakable things to my non-Euclidean geometry. "Face it, Jose. You're going to be the hit of that birthday party."
"The last children's party my family attended resulted in the Great Vowel Shift of the 15th century," I warned, though I could feel my resolve weakening like the barriers between dimensions during a solar eclipse.
"Well," Toby said cheerfully, absently patting the Necronomicon as it nuzzled against his hand, "maybe this time we'll stick to making balloon animals. Though knowing you, they'll probably be anatomically correct creatures from the fourth dimension."
Despite myself, I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth - all of them, even the ones that existed in parallel realities. "The children might appreciate learning about proper tentacle arrangement..."
"That's the spirit!" Toby beamed. "And hey, if any of the balloon animals try to escape into another dimension, we'll just tell the parents it's part of the vanishing act."
I couldn't help it - I laughed, causing several nearby shadows to dance and my collection of ritual daggers to chime in harmonic resonance. The sound was surprisingly... human. And for once, that didn't feel like a weakness at all.
P.S. - Note to self: need to research if it's possible for an eldritch being to develop a tolerance to rum. For purely academic reasons, of course.