It Awakes

Upon the fourth millennial anniversary of when it entered its lengthy hibernation, the occultists joined hands to encircle the ground it slumbered beneath: a great white rock, with many great and little holes that ran right through, found upon a cliff with a steep drop, marked the spot of its self-burial; in unison, they sang the chants of a language that did not belong to Man, as the Moon began to take its course betwixt the Sun and the Earth. In their white robes, as clean as their shaven bodies, the occult master bathed his flock, one by one, with a full bucket's worth of whale shark blood each, painting them red. The light continued to fade away, and the chanting grew louder, as the master climbed to stand upon the great white rock, in the black robes that were stained by his sweat and tears and urine and faeces and blood, a second coat to his long, unwashed hair and beard, that engulfed his body entirely. Only as the Sun was covered fully by the Moon, did the occultists each pull a wooden rod from their robes, aligned jagged, loosely fitted blades, and slit their throats, falling as to let the blood flowing from them pour into a hole of the great white rock, staining and lubricating the inside, as well as forming red puddles beside the exits. The occultist master continued the chanting alone, emptying his bowels and stomach as he did so, a sludge oozing from each end of the hollow tube tube ran through him. His eyes rolled back to white, and he dropped his robes to reveal his mouldy, rotten form.

The ground beneath began to shake, as it awoke and tunneled to the surface; the occult master struggled, but did keep his balance. As the Sun began to reveal itself once again, slug-like things emerged, and one by one found a hole of the rock to enter, detaching and fusing back together as they did so, and when it was within its shell, four of its sluggish limbs grabbed the occult master by each of his own limbs, pulling him tightly to the rock it resided within, and another of its limbs slithered within his mouth, shooting deep down to reach his innards, as the master continued to grumble the chant in struggled chokes; its remaining, countless slugs-for-arms slurped up the blood of both occultist and whale shark that had been been spilled within, upon, and around its shell.

The Moon had now moved out of the Sun's way, allowing the full light of day to beam down to the Earth; it would have to make its journey now, as it dislikes the dryness that the Sun's light causes.

With the blood consumed, its shell retrieved, and the gift clutched tightly, the ball of eyeless slugs gently rolled itself off the cliffside, crashing and bowling across the beach and into the waters, sinking quick to great depths, poking itself out to roll across the floors or to grab at the occasional prey that wandered within its grasp. The gift began to crush from the water pressure, every orifice spewing blood, as it went from man to mangled flesh, fit for the creature to slurp into its shell, piece by piece.

It would spend most of its time awake rolling across the depths, only on rare occasion to the shallow waters, or floating upon the surface, for an untold quantity of time, until it grew tired, slithering its way upon land to find a cliff to bury itself beneath for another four-thousand years of slumber.