The Haunted Traveler Vol. 2 Issue 1

haunting depth calling me in rich, round overtones as though
from a faraway universe:
“Ula, ula, ula…” was the same beginning, a set
three ulas repeated again and again, fading into the distance.
“Tonnngen, ullllllaaaaaaaa….”
I did not wake up this time. For I was aware, somehow,
that I could only hear the voice in my sleep. I listened
intently, in fear and awe, and with respect.
“Fatana, Ula-tongen, su…” came the clearest words
yet, a little more harshly.
Then came the letters.
Sometimes, when you close your eyes, you can see
flashes of light and red miasma as your eye tries to focus on
the back of your eyelid. I saw them then, the letters, one by
one, flashing:
69
M-I-C-H-A-E-L
My name. It was my name.
***
And so began my relationship—you might even call
it an obsession—with Ula-tongen. He comes to me every
night and speaks the same song, a haunting, glowing song of
power distilled in His crucible of nether greatness held out
beyond the stars. I listen, and I heed it. Because He is Ulatongen.
Ula, ula ula.
It goes like this:
Fatana tongen sula.
Ula, ula, ula.
Ula-tongen, sula.
Ula, ula, ula.