Foul Fridge Note

To whomever reads this missive,

Do not make the error I have made. I thought to open this receptacle of cold and consumables. What I bore witness to within shall forever haunt me. The old pizza has gained sentience and joined into an unholy alliance with what I can only imagine was once lasagna. There was a salad, or at least it was green, that battled against their assembled hordes, screaming in guttural, bestial agony as they threw themselves against its mass. Tearing and pulling. Rending.

Over the din of battle and the horrid sights came the smell. My stars, the smell. It was like something out of an ancient marsh, or long neglected tomb. It was a physical thing. Tangible. Eldritch. It assaulted me, battering against my sinuses until I threw my head and recoiled, lest in breathing it, it should contaminate my mind and forever sear itself into my senses, rending me incapable of ever experiencing another smell again. To be forever haunted by the grim darkness to which I stood in mute testament.

Turn back. Turn back now and do not return unless you do so with the fires of purgation. This place, this… thing, is unclean. The vileness palpable. I would ask for deliverance, but there is no salvation for me now. Not after this. My only escape is the void.

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