by JackalNChainz
As it is with all things, there is a line that seperates not quite, from that which is the defining factor. The so called gray area, where any one thing is lost to us in a blur of uncertainty. It exists by hiding in the distinctness of another. And though we imagine its' function and control, it lays unconstrained just beyond our own boundaries of reason and logic. It is there, unbeknownst to us...not quite this, and not quite that. It is for all intents and purposes hidden right before our very eyes, disguised in our own mistaken affirmation or indolent acceptance. Whatever the misconception, we are cock sure it is specified, categorized, and subject to our will. We control it. Or so we think.
This is an account, of just such a misconception. A simple case of mistaken identity. It is passed on to me by one of our very own, who may or may not confirm its' authenticity. This persons anonymity is foremost with me, and as always, my narrative should be weighed for its' entertainment value and not its' significance to the paranormal world. I am assured it has been confirmed by the parties with immediate involvement however, and is in fact a true story. And though the cruxt of the following story is based in truth, it is passed to me to incorporate it into a tale of my own imagination. And that is just my intention.
In this story, there are no bright and vivid colors...no scapes of winding green and lush vegetation. There are no gleefully screaming children bouncing about in play, or tenderly entwined lovers pledging their all to one another. There is no laughter of good cheer nor a hint of hope. There is only gray, and other shades of gray. There is disparity and terror and the sudden realization that we are not the masters of this world, or even at the top of the food chain. This story begins behind eight feet of mortar and cold stone, an impenetrable exterior that appears to keep elements out, but is more utilitarian for keeping them in. These walls jut upwards into the cold, gray November sky and sometimes disappear within the misty nethers of low hanging clouds. The buildings 11th century spires, once occupied by armed and metal clad sentinals, now stare out into the surrounding wilderness warning all to stay away. Its' girth is monstrous and intimidating, and trails of water drip down from hidden heights pooling in muddy shoals at its' feet. The front entrance of the old castle is lit by a single bulb hanging in a modest fixture from a vaulted foyer, and it seems as though even light is timid within this place. The gates of the property are far away beyond the trees, maintaining the keeps privacy with stern warnings to keep out. There is a long journey to even reach the grounds of the facility, followed by another lengthy climb from its' iron gates up its' leaf blown drive. The trees on either side are bare, and reach out with craggy fingers towards visitors and the sullen, engorged sky. The undergrowth is almost nonexistant, and the woods seem to fade away in obscurity. There is a bleakness there that forbids even gazing into the harshness that surrounds the old fortification. The woods, the walls, and the gates say without stammering that there is no escape from this place. Even without armed guards and dogs and sentries at the gates, there is an unspeakable sense that flight is hopeless. Mortally so. There is no sign at the gate proclaiming the existence of the monolith up the mountain. But as one arrives at the front of the building, there is in stone above the arched entrance, one word written in old high germanic....Verdienstorden, the order.
Its' back to the Alps and the Austrian border, and the front door facing the village of Kreuth some miles to the north, the old castle nestles deep into the wooded mountains in a secluded and lonesome landscape. And though its' ramparts and spires dominate the inner forest where it lays, they are merely an outer shell of a facility fully encompassed. Most of the buildings interior are now lined with marble paneling and sheetrock. The ceilings are still out of reach, and the windows, well, are interior only. There are no exterior windows. The plumbing is still dated, but the facility has been wired for the latest electrical innovations. Innovations immediately post world war two, that is. There is some debate regarding just why the german army was occupying the old castle during the war. Forthrightness has never been a nazi attribute. But now, the swastika and SS runes have been removed, and replaced with surgical gowns and masks. The loud speakers bark the names of critical personnel, and the halls echo with the shuffling of their covered feet. Meds are carted from place to place by a very thick nurse whose only desire is for her shift to end. She distributes the pharmaceuticals with a tiny cup of water, and moves to the next door with a look of disgust on her fat face. Men and women in white lab coats also move from floor to floor, and room to room, mumbling to eachother about patients and therapy, theory and the latest psych/journal revelations....and the monster in sb-11.
Copyright 2008 All Rights Reserved
I'm captured, as always. Won't be free till you finish this one. 
