Summoning an Eldritch horror is all about boundaries. This is no minor pantheon of darkness–demons, ghouls and small gods, hooved and hungry. No. These are horrors uninhabiting the cosmos, ouroboric infinity devouring itself.

I swipe through profile pictures. They undulate, defying the reality of liquid crystal pixels, biting my fingertips through the conductive indium coating the screen. Then one picture swells, drowning the room in carnivorous stars.

If you desire your true forever after, I will be the Eldritch for you. My eyes can be so blue, just as your heart can be so blue. 

The delicate lines catch in my chest and the screen turns to a mirror. I see myself remade by the horror’s light—split pupils, bones for cheeks, hollow throat. Liquid fills the room, compressing each rib, exploding the pressure in my ears. 

When it releases me, I swipe the complicated sigil with a shaking finger, trusting in the sanctity of my profile settings. The horror cannot speak until spoken to, the horror cannot manifest unless asked, the horror cannot disintegrate or transport you. All the usual.

* * *

For our first date, Oben is wearing a watercolor face, smudged and yielding, lights glowing under the skin. Their eyes go for miles, iridescent-blue as a hundred polluted rivers.

We eat and laugh and talk, the night glistening with potential. We already feel like a couple, somehow. Even though, in the glass, I cannot see Oben at all. Just my own reflection, unrecognizable on the rain-streaked surface. 

My clothes are muted and modest now. But I still remember Peter pulling my shirt higher up my chest. Are you really going out like that?

I ignore his voice and smile for Oben. Each bite of calamari enters the red-lipped cavern of my mouth, an offering of salt brining my heart. Tonight, it’s as if we’ve always known each other. Maybe this relationship will be the one that lasts forever.

Afterwards, Oben bends at the waist, oily hair slithering over their shoulders. I wait for the all-consuming kiss, shivering in the grip of our first-date fantasy. But when it comes it is delicate, a single exhalation of water, leaving nothing behind.

* * *

Our next date is at a museum. Oben stands so close to the paintings that the alarms should be going off. I am tethered by our held hands, suspended in the certainty of being desired.

Oben stands longest in front of a kraken painting, its limbs thrashing around a pirate ship, wood splitting, sky pierced by light. After a long time, Oben turns, a smile surfacing from their drowning face. Waiting for me to unbind their tongue.

I oblige. “What speaks to you about this piece?”

“Tam—” Oben whispers, then blinks. “The piece speaks to me about the first time I saw you.” 

The museum’s lights flicker and my heart jackknifes. A cold dampness in my lungs. It must be normal for a horror to say things that feel like my veins unraveling in the dark. I wonder who Tam is.

“Do you like it?” Oben asks.

I’ve hated the ocean ever since I tumbled under the waves, lungs filling with salt. Peter laughing when I emerged, soaked and shivering. Clumsy, aren’t you?

But here with Oben, I find myself wanting to like it again. 

“Tell me.”

“I like the brushstrokes, the way the white paint foams and the sea feels eternal.”

They press a smooth finger to my mouth, then study the splash of crimson that my lips leave behind. “You, too, are brushstrokes on a canvas that feels eternal.”

I blush, thinking of my profile pic, of how much I have tried to reconfigure myself into something that an Eldritch would desire when summoned. Something worthy of forever.

“I probably look different than you expected. Would you prefer it if I didn’t wear makeup?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” A flush of sadness crosses Oben’s cheeks, face tightening against a knotted rope of griefs. “Do you always dream in mirrors?”

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Oben floats away to the next painting while I gulp for air.

* * *

Weeks pass without a response. I thought I’d ruined things until Oben finally answers my latest summoning. My living room smells of takeout food and rain, one window swollen open. Oben pours onto the couch beside me, shadows dimming our surroundings into nothingness. 

My molecules drift towards them, ready to unmake themselves, if only I could find the words. Beads of sweat slick my skin like a tongue. Oben’s back is sharp and damp under my hands, jelly skin barnacled with scars, bloodying the beige couch to darkest blue. 

On my side table, their phone pulses red with notifications, better offers of desire from more experienced practitioners. Maybe we should stop. Already I feel too light, like the motes of my body are coming unglued. 

“I’m sorry,” Oben says, voice cracking the silence. 

The casual way Oben breaks the rule about waiting to be spoken to should frighten me. I have to dissolve the convocation, send Oben back. But I’m bracing for the spear-tip of rejection, heart contracting. “Is there someone else?”

“Something else, yes. Tam shattered me, left me strewn in pieces throughout the galaxy. I tried drowning a few continents, filling oceans with blood, but nothing worked. Until a friend suggested summoning.” Oben looks through me, cities burning in their eyes. Their voice rotting with guilt. “I just wanted a vessel to pour Tam into. I didn’t realize that you would be–sentient.” 

A whimper lodges in my throat. “But I summoned you.” 

Oben smiles and the room wavers, revealing endless dark behind. My body turns copper oxide green, foaming at every joint, buckling under infinity. No. This has to be a lie. Never trust a horror, that’s the first rule of every summoning. But a nebula of Eldritch tentacles whisper towards me and then pause, awaiting permission.

“Yes,” I whisper.

I close my eyes, wondering what forever will feel like.

* * *

Ⓒ Faith Allington