The word

I went down the steps, counting them. My uncle told me there were precisely two hundred, but I didn’t feel I could trust him. Therefore I counted. My uncle didn’t lie.

The rite of growing up, held in high esteem in my town, forced me to go down the steps, to meet my destiny. Or some version of it. I never took it seriously, it seemed like something from long before, when people were still clinging to superstition.

When I got down into the room in which the ceremony would be held, I understood why the rite seemed so ridiculous to me. My uncle stood in the dim lit corridor, he tried to shout something to me, but someone pushed me into the blinding light of the sun, shining through the hole cut in the bedrock

The Reverend, whom I’d never seen before, opened his book. He looked eerie.
‘You come here, not knowing. You will go from here, knowing.’
I felt something in my spine, creeping up.
‘You will go from here, telling the world of the old ones, like the ones before you.
You will tell them of mighty Cthulhu’

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