The creature shuffled through the forest, leaving slick, sickly puddles of slime on the fallen leaves. It had lived for many long days and nights undisturbed by man, sensed only in the darkest recesses of man’s nightmares. But not even monsters can exist forever, and this Lovecraft-esque abomination had reached the end of its path.
Using its last remaining strength, the eldritch thing raised what functioned as a head to the dappled canopy above and let out a low, guttural moan that silenced the forest. The crickets and moths watched, but said nothing, as the thing staggered once and then tumbled to the spongy ground. Its death was as horrifying as its life, and even years later nothing would grow in the spoiled earth where the monster fell.
In the hours and days that followed there wasn’t so much normal breakdown and decay as there was an oily putrification, the horror’s body becoming a stygian bog of steaming otherworldy humors. No crow dared approach, no opportunistic coyote neared. Maggots, finding themselves sufficiently gagged, gave the whole mess a wide berth. None would venture close.
And then my damn dog discovered and rolled in it.