Wayward Desolation

By Nyhl Kreeg

Jack used to be an aspiring filmmaker during high-school, but when garnering little support for his projects from his teachers, friends and family, he turned towards the impartial beauty of nature where he spend every free hour capturing the wilderness in its purest form. Enamored with the serenity he found in the untouched wild, and disaffected with a community that rejected him, he began to drift further and further from society as a whole, until he had lost all contact to those he once cared for. Over the years, his passion for photography faded, and having no one left to talk to, he often sat alone in his apartment, unable to overcome the subconscious scars he earned from his rejection. He took to drink as his mental health had deteriorated substantially, when, one morning, his woes became manifest within the four walls now defining his entire world, as he awoke to a sleepless nightmare of utter isolation that even death would not release him from. If he ever wants to escape his tortuous dreams that bear closer resemblance to reality than he would hope for, he has to break the morbid cycle of his own doing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nyhl Kreeg
• Release date: Apr 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223772767

Nyhl Kreeg

Raised in the valleys and vineyards winding through the German forests past castles and ecclesiastical edifices, my fascination with the horrors hiding in the dark and within the human soul took root from the cradle. At the age of six I wrote my first short story, and I continued to express my inchoate passion for the horror genre throughout school. Once I had discovered the works brought forth by the romantic movement and the Victorian era, my love for English literature became manifest. Some years later, when I had been holding the abyss’s gaze for too long, I was confronted with the metaphysics of philosophy, which influenced my perspective of true horror and encouraged me to put my phantasms into words.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The pestering sun hung low in a perpetually gray sky, once again stealing the repose I was denied every morning; and every morning I left a mental note to get some damn curtains already. Shutting myself away from any problem of my own making was a proven tactic to sustain the blissful misery I contrived my life to become. The lack of a reasonable sleep schedule was merely accentuating my utter loss of control over what little agency I had to begin with, though letting go of it entirely was not so much an active decision as I kept proclaiming to the man in the mirror. Every day I preached to him the same lecture, beseeching him to believe the convenient excuse of determinism to justify my failure. But his unwavering eyes brought judgment upon me, breaking the delusion that it was some kind of a stroke of philosophical genius to give Fate the finger and simply stop trying.

Yet here I lay, hiding under the blanket, cursing the morning away, stuck in a war between the consequences my lack of sleep inhered, and the roiling thoughts pressing against my skull. The pressure of the latter always prevailed; the necessity of the former would claim me later on the couch.

I slithered out from under the blanket and slunk over to the kitchen, avoiding the bathroom for as long as I could — the man in the mirror was waiting for me in there. In search of questionable nutrition I opened the fridge, and, when finding it dismayingly empty, took a furtive look in the pantry as well, only to reveal what I already apprehended. It was Monday, which meant I had to go shopping for groceries. Another week had just snuck past me; another weekend lost its meaning as I evaded the responsibilities I once wished to have.

But that was neither here nor there. With a sigh of frustration at the chore ahead as much as at the fact that there was nothing else to be frustrated about, I slammed both the fridge and the pantry shut. The sooner I would get something edible stocked up, the sooner I could sink back into my rut of ruinous malingering.

I cobbled together whatever clothes strewn about the living room caught my eye first — gray sweat pants, a blue hoodie, and worn-out sneakers that I could have sworn were white when I bought them. Then I got on one foot to put on non-matching socks and those shady shoes, regretting instantly that I hadn’t sat down to do so. My arms flung about in a helpless attempt to keep my hungover balance before I hit the hardwood floor. Lying there supine with a tingling along my spine I gave myself a moment to calm down and quietly swear away my own ineptitude. If my younger self could see me right now... never mind, let him have his hopes and dreams.

I rolled my head over to look at the pictures of beautiful landscapes on my walls. They always reminded me those halcyon days when I discovered photography for