The fog did not lift again.
That was when he saw the door.
He stepped through.
“Ezekiel. You measured the land. But did you measure the space between the land and itself?” Yog-Sothoth-s Yard
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. The fog did not lift again
“The yard is not a place. It is a hinge. I am the hinge. You have walked my bounds for three days. Now you must choose: step through, or stay and become a post.” “Ezekiel
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.