!F8wHraWURw 08/31/09(Mon)13:30 No.5667151|
The dead aren't always quiet.
Sometimes, when someone dies with business left unfinished, they leave behind an echo. Their last impression on the world before they leave. On it's own, an echo isn't that dangerous. It's tragic, always doomed to replay intimate moments that keep it tied to this world, only half cognizant of the world. It's tragic, but not dangerous.
The longer an echo lasts, though, the more chance it has to become fully aware of itself, it's surroundings, and it's place in life--or lack thereof. They know that something keeps them here, tied to the mortal world, drifting through the dusk and twilight, all the liminal places of the world where they can exist without existing. They don't think that the something is themselves, their fears, their aspirations left unfulfilled. They think that it's something that they're missing. They think that they're hollow. That's what it is, an emptiness, something that needs to be filled.
That's called The Hunger. When an echo first experiences the hunger, it's nothing more than a small hole, and the nearly self-aware spirit will rationalize that they just need to fill that hole. It's a small hole, and it can easily be filled. But where can the dead get courage to fill that hole? Or love? Or whatever even more esoteric quality they think they need to pass on to the next life, whatever it may be.
From the living. The living have all of those things and more. They can stand to lose them, too, because they're alive, and can get them back, while the echo is gone. It can never get back what it didn't have.
And that's when the Hunger takes over. They chew and bite and siphon off the living, trying to fill their holes, trying to fill their mountain sized stomachs with a mouth the size of a pin. When they do, they only succeed in deepening the hole and turning it into a great abyss, and worse still, those mortals killed by a Hungry echo are just as likely to become Hungry themselves.