You’ve found your way here, then. Most don’t arrive by accident, though they like to pretend they did. The Mythos has a way of tugging on the loose threads of restless minds until they wander in, just as you have. Some come chasing answers, others chasing shadows. The smart ones leave quickly. The unlucky ones stay.
I am the Keeper. That is not my first name, or my last, but it will do. My task is simple: to gather the stories that slip through the cracks of the world. A beast glimpsed on the edge of a fog-drowned road. A candle that burns too long. A dream that doesn’t end when you wake. They drift to me like ash, fragile and smoldering, and I write them down before they vanish—or worse, before they decide to find a home inside someone else.
You may think of this place as a library, but it is not. Libraries are safe, civilized. This collection is more like a nest: breathing, shifting, alive. Each story is a feather, a bone, a scrap of cloth stolen from something that still prowls in the dark. When you read them, you are not simply observing; you are brushing against what they left behind. And sometimes, they brush back.
Still, you’ve come this far, and I will not turn you away. Sit, read, remember. But know this: every tale in the Astral Mythos carries a weight. Carry too many, and you may find yourself bending beneath them. Carry the wrong one, and it may not put you down again.