She doesn’t have a name yet – at least not one that any human could decipher. Or rather, to hear it spoken would drive one slowly insane. More than simply crazy, the sound would burrow like the fissures in concrete driven deeper and wider with the change in seasons. As the moisture of the spring thaw seeps into the texture and density of the slab and waits – it longs to summer steam and expand and crack free of immovable surroundings – that is how her name nestles in the creases of Man’s gray matter. Long after the echoes are lost from hearing, it vibrates and pulses and disrupts the signals of the rational mind.
Then, she calls. She cries out her own agony. She is trapped and alone, invisible to even those who walk in her glow. She was just one of the Many. Without face or form, she clings to the world below. Her essence shines brighter than even that dim light from above. She sees them up there – shadows really – ambling about, blocking the sun, oblivious to her distress. So she calls.
The visitors arrive with a dull buzz trickling behind their ears. And they stay there, breathing in the chalky damp, spreading out to lay still and ease the growing madness. “We belong here,” they think. “We will live with our mistress and bask in her light. We will stretch our powerful limbs and take hold in every minor crevasse. We will grow up and out until the stone is broken and she is free.”