by John Xero
Son, please, listen to me, for your sake. My father tried to warn me about the curse, but I didn't listen. I understand. When a madman tells unbelievable truths, how do you pick those rare gems out from among the ravings?
It begins as whispers, son. Whispers and whimpering, like angels sobbing. Never ending.
It's a tumour, filling the sane places inside with a crawling, gnawing sickness.
Believe me. My father warned me. And that day on the farm, when I killed him, it came to me. It will come to you, too.
For your sake, son, don't do this.