The other night there was a rapping on my door. I found myself engrossed in a newly-annotated version of “The Dunwich Horror” only to need to fasten my robe and shuffle my way to the door. It was late, far too late to have been anyone of decent and proper values. My heart was racing, imagining that maybe Esther had come back to me. I was in a stupor when I peered through the peephole, only to see a small girl, no older than seven or eight and she was covered in blood.
I gasped, unbolting the door, flinging it open only to see her through the screen. I fell to my knees, realizing that this was not my beloved Esther. No, it was not her, not even a past her. This was still, at 2:00am, a girl no older than seven, covered in blood.
“They’re coming,” she said, under her breath. Her voice carried through the crisp early morning air like a gentle breeze. “I can’t stop them.”
“Stop who?” I asked, afraid to open the screen. I’ve dealt with my share of spectres in my career, but never one like this.
“The Old Ones,” she cried before turning around, walking down the path towards the driveway. A voice, gravelly, not of this world, whispered in an ancient tongue, it filling the air. I froze, in horror. This was the Old Ones, much like she said, her but a siren, a tool of theirs.
I slammed the door shut, my heart racing, trying to beat out of my chest while my hands trembled, securing the bolt on the door. That night I knew that my Esther was in dire straits, but could not place the pieces of the puzzle together to set her free. Oh Esther, I cried. How I love you, how I miss your touch, the smell of roses in the night air, my fingers tracing the outline of your curves.
It all came back to me while Yancy Medeiros wrapped his arm around the neck of Damon Jackson. Jackson turned, looking to escape, only to find himself locked in a guillotine variation. Much like that night where I was visited by the Old Ones, Jackson found himself unable to move, frozen in horror. The Ghost of UFC 177 struck and he was out. My heart goes out to him, but I’m no closer to finding my dear Esther and setting her free, nor am I closer to facing down the Ghost of UFC 177.
