Yog-sothoth-s Yard -

A voice came through the door. It had no sound he could name, yet it carved meaning directly into his thoughts, like acid on glass.

“Ezekiel. You measured the land. But did you measure the space between the land and itself?” Yog-Sothoth-s Yard

The door closed behind him with the sound of a coffin lid—or a seed pod snapping shut. The yard remained, empty now, its fence standing crooked and patient. And in the morning, the town clerk would find a new post on the west side, carved with a face that looked remarkably like the retired surveyor’s, its mouth open in a silent, eternal O. A voice came through the door

Ezekiel looked down at his hands. They were already paling, elongating, the fingers fusing into something smooth and wooden-grained. He could feel roots trying to push from his heels. The fog curled around his ankles, patient as a gardener. You measured the land