02 Jan Tears of a Star-Spawned Sybil

Posted at 11:00h in Aliens, Abductions, and Extraterrestrials, Science Fiction, Space and Intergalactic Exploration by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on January 2, 2025

“Tears of a Star-Spawned Sybil”

Written by Corpse Child
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 14 minutes

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It’s beautiful isn’t it, your sun, this gargantuan orb of blazing fury that dominates the clear skies. Its sheer intensity and raw power are matched only by its cosmic beauty. As well as this, its ability to marvel is matched by its ability to terrify, for indeed I am moved to tears of dread when the day breaks.

I must admit, I’ve been curious as to why so many of you I see associate the cloudy days or the darkness with evil or despair. At the same time, though, I understand, for you would not have seen true despair, true horror, as I have. You have not yet seen the whims of an unstoppable force strip everything you knew away from you before your very eyes. Not as you are now, at least.

Indeed, this is a different breed of beings than what I remember. A different age. But you are still beings of flesh, all the same. None of you will remember that day. The day when the skies went dark and all looked to the sky, not in wonder, but in fear. The day when our native lands were consumed, forever ceasing to exist.

Moreover, you don’t remember how we tried to warn you and foretold the end. How we only wanted to help you, and how you slaughtered us for it. You won’t remember, because you would never be allowed to remember. It doesn’t allow you to remember.

It, the last child and creator of the flesh, created you all to be different from what you were before. I must admit this always made me curious. Why would it continuously recreate a different world than what it once knew? Perhaps, I’ve thought, It is trying to camouflage this new world, as if doing so might allow it to hide from the inevitable.

I understand that much of this will be difficult for you to comprehend. As I’ve said, It keeps you all in blissful ignorance. It wants you all to live without knowing the horrors that came before. It also sees me and my kind as evil. It has always seen us as responsible for the devastation of our native lands before, the long-since nonexistent worlds of a bygone era. A damned epoch. It is for this reason that I fear much of what I say now will fall upon deaf ears.

You won’t remember as It does that it was we who made this world’s existence possible. It was we who ferried it across the cosmos and brought it here to rebuild and thrive anew. You won’t know yet of the terror I know It feels even now, the terror we both feel.

You may be wondering exactly who I am and why I tell you this. To answer your first question, I go by many names. Each of you seems to have a unique perception of what I and my kind are. In some ways, I am what some of you have taken to calling an “angel.” To others, I am what is collectively known as a “demon.” And to the more primitive, I am simply an alien, emanating from beyond.

I suppose the most accurate way to describe what I am would be to refer to me as a foreigner from the dark beyond. I, however, consider myself, as I did back then on Andromeda, to be a messenger. A “Sybil,” as you might know it, come so that you may all remember, as I do — as It does — the lost ages of Andromeda.

Much like here with this galaxy, Andromeda also bore bright, burning suns that cast their light all through the cosmos. There were three of them, each rotating in an eternal cycle. Because of this, night did not exist on any of the Andromedan worlds. The skies were always beautifully illuminated with the different spectral, auroral rays corresponding to each sun.

That was always the crown of Andromeda’s beauty. How such beauty would spawn from such a force as It–the starving one, Khaeos, the beginning and the end whose eight limbs silently scream in the pain of eternal hunger–has always perplexed me. But such as it was, we all would be spawned from it. My kind was torn directly from its cloth as its descendants, unlike you and all others whom developed more uniquely.

My native world rested in the very center of Andromeda’s core, always warmed by the suns’ ultraviolet rays. This world we knew by the name of “Null.” It was our home, the home of those that descend from the beginning and the end itself. And on Null, we thrived among our own as a community, much as you did then and do now.

We, like you, built mighty structures for shelter, community, and worship. Though, while I’ve noticed that you all of this era, this breed, seem to worship any being or force that you would deem as “unnatural” or “unknown,” we had one, and one alone who we knelt to. One whom we feared, and it was all too known to us: the Gluttonous Star itself, Khaeos. It was Khaeos that first brought forth the cosmos and who first penetrated the eternal dark with the birth of light. It was Khaeos that produced the vast, innumerable worlds and the creatures that walk upon them, and which would be the end of all of this.

I suppose, in these and a few other ways, I and my kind perhaps aren’t so alien to you after all. All who inhabited Andromeda’s worlds acted in this manner, all bowing only to the Gluttonous Star. This tireless devotion would prove to be our folly as well. For, as I’ve watched how you all would, in various ways, attempt to placate, or “appease” those which you kneel to, we too thought we could prolong our lives in this manner.

At the center of each Andromedan world was a place of worship to the star, with some effigy either carved or erected, whether crudely or adeptly, in its image. On Null, it was a mere carving upon the ground at the planet’s center, a cavernous pit in within it representing the great maw at its core from which creation was born. I remember how, for nearly a millennium, at the dawning of each sun’s apex, a different sun would poise itself directly overhead, and the “nulling” ceremony would be observed. We would all gather around the carving, standing about its outline, and we would shriek uniformly to the cosmos with each of our five mouths. One was always selected to cast themselves into the pit as an offering, as our means of giving back that which the star lost in our creation.

What we wouldn’t understand until it was far too late was that our god was not one that could be served, only feared. It would have us all in the end, regardless of our devotion or sacrifice. For the Gluttonous Star, Khaeos, is inevitability itself, the supreme force of nature throughout the cosmos, and all are but mere nourishment, existing only as such as it roams the vast outer dark.

It was when the second sun had reached its apex that day that we realized the horrific truth: that we had gathered for our second nulling ritual. I remember how beautiful that sun’s scarlet aura was, beaming across Null’s sandy, colorless terrain. In my eyes, the second sun had always been the most beautiful among our three. It would be with terror and sorrow that I would watch so much as a shadow eclipse its beauty. There Khaeos stood, looming above us all, silhouetted against the sun, forever shrouding the land, for the first and last time, in complete darkness.

I still hear my people’s shrieks of horror when everything we’d constructed over the past millennium began to crumble. The first thing I felt when I looked up to the beautiful scarlet bleached sky and beheld our maker for the first time was the terrain shaking violently. I remember the violet glow of its maw as the planet’s terrain was uprooted, taken into, and greedily consumed by It, taking it forever into oblivion. While doing this, I saw how It’s multitudinous arms writhed frantically, as if in excitement or relief, each of its mouths opening wider with soundless agony and desperation. More than this, I can never forget how our collective cries, pervasive and dominating as they were, fell upon no ears when we began to be quickly drawn into the abysmal maw.

When I see the sun rise, I still see each of their faces when they reached and screamed out to me for salvation before they were ripped into the sky and engulfed, ceasing to exist. That was the day when all of Andromeda would know that salvation and prosperity was only a false hope. Once the star had Null, I and the small handful that’d found a way to flee dispersed to whatever world we thought might serve as a refuge.

What safety we thought this would buy us, I cannot say; we were naïve. The Gluttonous Star, with its ravenous ire, was impatient. I watched with every passing second as more of Andromeda’s worlds were helplessly pulled into its maw and devoured, just as Null was. Before long, few worlds remained. With this, we realized Andromeda was lost and changed our objective. With each world we could set upon, instead of seeking refuge, we would always use the knowledge of our oncoming doom to warn the native inhabitants to flee.

We felt that if we could not save Andromeda, then we could at least preserve its legacy in a new galaxy. Many believed us, trusted our judgments, and took to the stars as we had. Though, the number which actually managed to escape the end, I cannot say, for we had seen far too many still be helplessly taken by Khaeos. I suppose that if there are any out among the vast cosmos that did survive that horrid day, that they have sought abandoned or untenanted moons to hide upon.

I must admit that I’ve gazed upon the sky at night and wondered how many of the once numerous, beautiful natives of Andromeda still live. I know only of one people that surely does, as my kind were instrumental in ensuring their survival. Though, not without facing another horror ourselves: the horror of genocide.

With most of the other worlds either abandoned or consumed by the Gluttonous Star, we quickly set upon the last world we knew to still contain life: your original home, Dermahs, the world of the flesh. It was what you would all call a “grotesque hellscape,” with its terrain of living primordial flesh. Grotesque as it may have been, it was your home nonetheless, and I remembered beholding the creatures of flesh for the first time. The ways in which I watched them conduct themselves, as well as their unique attributes as a whole, were what your breed of fleshlings would see as “primal” and would no doubt find horrifying to behold. I must admit, however, that I was not horrified. Given that by then I’d long-since become numb to common atrocities and the bizarre, I was more curious of the nature of these creatures than anything.

I suppose “primal” isn’t an altogether inaccurate description of them. Indeed, of all the beings of Andromeda’s worlds, it was your kind that stood out the most. From the manners in which they all mindlessly shambled upon their native soil, grazing and milling blindly about and occasionally even consuming themselves for nourishment, to the way in which I watched each creature adapt to its terrain and conditions, these beings were in every way the most unique and strange. More than this, I saw that these beings, unlike those of the other worlds, didn’t bear any knowledge of architecture or community. There were none of the monolithic monuments or spires such as what we had on Null, and none of the aquatic domes that defied gravity as on Hydrok. Not even the spectral pylons of light from Elek, or the fungal growth huts on Botan. Even the ways in which the fleshlings communicated were unique from any other, having a form of articulate speech as opposed to the screeches and howls that other creatures of Andromeda used.

They didn’t seem to congregate or live in groups. Instead they chose to live independently from another, minding only themselves. Simply put, you were the most primitive creatures in all of Andromeda, and yet, you were also the most free. Perhaps that was what intrigued me about you the most. In all respects, these creatures were the most underdeveloped compared to the rest, but at the same time you all were the most peaceful, in a manner of speaking. You knew nothing yet of reverence or fear, for I observed that you hadn’t, as the rest of us had, bowed to any sort of image of the Gluttonous Star. Simply put, your kind were tranquil and serene, peaceful in a way none could fathom.

Maybe, in a certain sense, my kind really is guilty then. We would introduce the concept of terror to you for the first time with our warnings of what was coming. In doing this, we stripped you of your freedom, and for that I will ask that we be someday forgiven.

We told many of them, urging them to flee by showing them visions of the coming doom. They, however, seemed to take this as an act of hostility, adamantly believing us to be some sort of a beacon to the star that was hailing it. They believed we were leading them to their end–to damnation, rather than to salvation. It was this misguided fear that drove them to violence. No matter the innocence of our plans, and regardless of our pleas of mercy, their wrath was guaranteed.

I again heard the screeches of the suffering of my kind as they fell, soaking the fleshy soil in their blood. Everywhere spanning Dermahs’s beautifully scarlet-bleached horizon, I saw nothing short of utter carnage unfold. Some I saw were ripped limb from limb, slowly and painfully torn apart, while others were impaled through their cores with the creatures’ long, curved talons. We were outnumbered, weakened, and hopelessly outmatched against them, and it wasn’t long before the already small number of us had dwindled to only a handful.

I myself almost succumbed to this gruesome fate when, in attempt to flee for whatever haven I could find, one of them had caught me and cast me upon the soil like I was waste, and viciously tore me open. Just when I was about to resign myself to my fate, however, I noticed the casting of an all-too familiar shadow, followed by a violet glow. That was when true terror flooded through me again as the foundation of the planet shook and quaked, just as it had on Null.

When I looked to the sky, I witnessed my attacker being forced into the cavernous maw above. Though I couldn’t see it on his face as I had my kin on Null, for these creatures bore no faces, the frenzied flailing of his naked, gangly arms said it all. It was afraid, and it then realized we only wanted to help. Alas, it was all too soon that the sky was filled with them, thousands of fleshlings frantically thrashing while being drawn into the sky and digested by the void, joining the fate of the other inhabitants of Andromeda.

I would’ve resigned myself to this same destiny, having now seen devastation for a second time and feeling every bit of the weight of this failure, if I’d not seen it–the birth of a new flesh child. It was something that might’ve been overlooked in any other circumstance. But all the same, I saw it for what it was: a last chance for redemption. Weak and battered, I struggled to make my way over to the newly-born creature. The few that remained urged me to flee with them, to save ourselves and abandon the planet to its fate. I, however, remained adamant and steadfast in my goal to preserve at least a fragment of our lost age.

Using what little strength I still possessed, I began, with the aid of the others, to ferry this newborn flesh child away from the dying world and into the outer dark. Nearing the edge of Andromeda’s borders, I looked back to see those three beautiful suns being slowly devoured. That, I think, was the very first time I cried. In mere hours, I’d witnessed abject desolation, the end of life and beauty.

Yet, here I was, now carrying one last seed to bear a new generation. I know not how long we roamed the cosmos, nor could I recall how we first came upon your present galaxy. In truth, my primary objective was simply to find refuge somewhere as far away from Andromeda as possible, somewhere where perhaps the Gluttonous Star wouldn’t soon follow. I suppose, though, deep down, I always knew and feared that it would one day find us. In spite of this, I thought that we would at least buy this new generation of civilizations a better chance of survival by starting anew in a place hidden as deeply in the vast cosmic void as possible.

Eventually, we found just such a virgin galaxy–uninhabited and uncorrupted by any creature or force before. In its center was the large beautiful sun that sets even as I record this. Around it were seven worlds, three of which were encircled by large rings of vapor and rock. We reasoned this was our safest haven, for it was far from the reaches of Andromeda, and would perhaps be outside the range of the Gluttonous Star, for a time at least.

We ventured into it until finally, our strength waned and we released this last flesh child into the cosmos. Our physical bodies at last began to ebb away, dissolving into a cluster of spectral vapors. Before this was able to fully take effect, we were able to join together and form an entirely new cosmic body, unifying as the Gha’ahst, the moon that lives.

From this new form, we watched as the child awoke from its catatonic state and began forming, from its own flesh, a brand new world where none had existed before, in its own image. Though, this would not be entirely the same world it knew before. I watched as it would birth creatures similar to, though not entirely representative of, the other civilizations of Andromeda. Now that I think of it, perhaps that may yet be why its acts of creation differ from that of Dermahs.

What was more astounding to me was when I saw the fleshling then begin to somehow use the primordial flesh to mold a new landscape of lush green soil, similar to the green fungal world of Botan. As well as this, I saw that it was combining it with the crystalline blue water I’d remembered seeing on Hydrok. At the sight of this, my kind were not just curious but astonished. How was it able to create such things that it could never have known?

Perhaps, through some latent memory or instinct, it too sought to preserve a fragment of the lost age from where it first came. The first of these creatures, I remember, were those gargantuan beasts your breed later deemed “dinosaurs.” Large, mindless animals that reminded me much of the scaly dwellers of the dark and cavernous world of Ra’aptar. Unlike them, however, their mannerisms were much less sophisticated, behaving much more similarly to their own native behaviors, prone to mindless, primal actions.

For a time, this was how the new world lived, as a fragmented amalgamation, a shell of lost worlds. Over time, I saw how more and more new creatures would be introduced from the primordial flesh. Most of them were strange new variants of the more bestial natives of the former planet Dermahs, these newborns being formed with proper skin, unlike their former nakedness on Dermahs. Of course, the pinnacle of these newborn variations of fleshlings were your kind, human beings themselves.

I remember how shocked I and the others of the Gha’ast were upon beholding this marvelous development. These creatures, though reminiscent of their Andromedan creator in shape and figure, were something entirely novel. They were an extension, an evolution or maturity of the primitive Dermahs natives. Furthermore, these new creatures possessed a capacity for higher thought, and for reasoning. It wasn’t long before I witnessed them construct their own dwellings, something they could never have known to do before.

More than just this, however, I watched you even begin devising images of worship, just as we had on Andromeda. That’s when I would realize for the first time what this new civilization, this new world, was. Our efforts had not in fact been in vain. Your kind was the living single embodiment of Andromeda, the combined tapestry of every aspect of peoples long nonexistent. I watched as you all gathered, just as we had, performing your various ceremonies, each of them different from one tribal faction to the next.

And still, you all remained as a blind people. For even in your practices, despite your devotion and fascination with higher powers, you failed to acknowledge the one most powerful of all. You produced countless theologies across many eras of civilizations, and not one of your religions considered the Gluttonous Star. Because of this, you remained a peaceful people, just as you were on Dermahs.

For eons, we simply observed you from afar. We, the Gha’ast, have watched you evolve from the very beginning. And we coexisted in this manner harmoniously. But, as with all harmony, as was realized back on Andromeda, there must at last come a bitter end.

And it is for this reason, as with every occasion before, that I beseech you now. I know not how long it was when we felt it. Because we natives of Null were direct descendants of the Star, cut directly from its cloth, we feel its presence when it draws near. We did eons before, when it took Null, and we do now, as it continues to do so. It is for this reason that we’ve arrived at this present moment.

Because our new cosmic bond would not allow us an individual form to walk upon you with as we had on Dermahs, we’ve always resorted to calling from afar to those that would listen, beckoning them to spread our warning. On certain occasions, such as I am now doing, we would assume control of one of you in order to communicate directly. In both instances, the results are the same. The Fleshling, your creator, always seeks to destroy us as his people did eons before, by forcing you to turn your aggression upon each other as a means of indirectly attacking us.

For in his eyes, we are, have been, and always will be a menace, the harbingers of oblivion. He will never know of our efforts in saving him, nor will he allow you to be influenced in any fashion by my kind, or by any our prophecies. This is why I now cry, for I believe that the end is soon upon us. And this time, there will be no way that I or any other can save you.

I leave this world now with this advice: look not to the sun for beauty. Look not to the sky for hope. For all that will come from the sky is terror at the end of all things.

I can feel it now, the Gluttonous Star, drawing ever closer through the vast outer dark. It’s starving, as it always has. I can feel its hunger as clearly as I feel the sun’s warmth through this vessel of flesh. The sun… how beautiful, and yet so haunting.

And so, I leave you with this warning. Do with it what you may, and know that I have done everything I can, and yet fallen short. And for this, I am sorry. So very sorry.