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| The remainder of the pages I found will be posted here shortly. I am working out how to best transfer the tale to the web without invoking the anger of the Great Old Ones. Don't want to end up like our protagonist, now do I? | | |
| "Cthulhu, the damnable and horrific, Elder god of timeless wastes..." For whatever reason, that one line scrawled upon that one page in a fevered man's desperate attempt to set down for the world his tale of anguish, repeated now in my mind. I lay in the darkness, unable to rest, my mind busily mulling what I had read not 3 hours previous. In the corner of the room, Jet, my dog, a large blue-black mongrel of ill breeding, lazily snored and enjoyed a sleep that I desired yet seemed now to elude me. Strangely, my sleeplessness began to cause within me a great feeling of dread, increasing in it's intensity. It was as if the room were being filled with something. It's displacement pushing me down. Jet seemed to jump awake then, raising his head up, then leaping to his feet crouching and growling in low, cautious tones. His hackles high and alert at some unseen dread that now pressed upon us in slowly increasing increments. I stared into the dim light of the room, eyes wide, watching Jet's reactions as best I could to what we both undoubtedly felt. Whether it was actually audible or simply in the confines of my own mind, I do not know, but I distinctly began to hear the droning sound of muffled chanting spoken in some ancient, indiscernable tongue. The incantations droned on, increasing in volume and intensity. Intermittently throughout, at the end of each cadence, I could make out one unmistakable word, "Cthulhu". I thought myself mad, having somehow become unhinged in my own mind as this auditory hallucination was now being coupled with those of a visual nature as well. Just above the left corner of the room, from within the ceiling itself, a dark almost black glow began to emminate, pulsing in time to the incessant chanting now filling the room and my mind. Jet cowered now, belly flat against the floor, eyes gazing upward transfixed as I was. Urine trickled from beneath him and out from either side of his large body. He shivered and no longer growled. I looked away from the debilitated mongrel that was once the brave and seemingly carefree Jet and found my eyes as frozen as the dogs upon what began to pull itself from the very material of the building. As if birthing itself from outside the fabric of reality, long and slowly snaking tentacles, 4 in number, emerged. Attaching themselves to the walls, they pulled at the sheetrock. The rambling incantations in their low and foreboding chorus came louder than ever, crashing throughout the room. Now they were joined by the deep vibratory bass of some unseen horn, blowing it's dreadful clarion call at the end of each phrasing. Cracks began to etch their way delicately from beneath the force of the snaking appendages, as now in full view, from the center of the eerie glow, a sight that can only be described as unspeakable filled my view and my heart with terror. There before me, nearly encompassing the entire room, was a malevolance personified. An evil that could no doubt find it's inception lost within the ageless wastes of time. Before man was, before life itself was, this darkness in tangible form existed and thrived. A massive head, faceless and barren of any familiarity with any creature in existence, turned now towards me. It's mass heaving, slow and deliberate, breathing in the smoky foul mists that encircled it. Eyes cold and dead, bereft of all compassion and reason, lay their damning gaze upon me. A fear like none I had ever known filled me. My body trembled uncontrollably as the chanting and the horn abruptly stopped. The monstrosity's tentacles languidly moved across the walls, onto the floor, and finally onto my bed, resting their cold grasp about my body. I was lifted now from my resting place, held in mid air by the immeasurable strength of this being. A low, powerful voice, it's timbre unlike any other, assailed my hearing. "Miserable being! How dare you speak against that which you know nothing of!" I now began to weep, terrified out of my rational mind, I found myself unable to voice what I so desperately wanted to say. I could not beg for my life as I wanted. Only gasps and sobs came forth. "Begging for your life does you no good against one who values not the existence of your worthless race! Long have you and your kind roamed the world in ignorance of what is revealed to you by those you deem insane and contemptible!" My fear-blind thoughts were laid bare to it, removing all doubt that this unspeakable thing was of a preternatural essence. It's grasp tightened now. A coldness dug into my very bones as the beast pulled me closer to it's black gaze. "You will be a walking curse to all who dare speak the blasphemies against me that you emboldened yourself to iterate this night. When death finds you, as it soon will at my behest, your soul will be bound to this plane. Your body a rotting and fetid tomb as you walk the world as one of the undead. You belong to me...and upon this sod you will forever tread." tune in this Friday for more... | | |
| All Apologies. Currently our "Zombie" friends adventures are on hold. As soon as I find the missing pages, I'll tell the rest of his story. | | |
| Dead Man's Burden I have long ridiculed the religions of man. There are so many from which to choose. All of which, in my mind, are the ridiculous flailings of infantile minds to understand and grasp that which they cannot explain. That was then, this is now. Now I am at a loss. It seems I myself understand nothing about the absolute reality of the world in which I live, or now, I suppose, "die". The rest of you I'd daresay haven't a clue either. Perhaps you prefer it that way. In reading this you will not be afforded that luxury. Let me enlighten you and burden your mind with the same weighty confusion that plagues mine. A few blocks from where I once lived, when I was a man, when I lived and breathed as the rest of you, there was a small, hole in the wall book shop. It catered to those small minds that seek "hidden knowledge" and insight through the esoteric ramblings of long dead cults and sects from the far corners of the earth. This was an occult book store and I often stopped in as the proprietor is a long time family friend. I always thought of him to be as simplistic and superstitious as my parents, his childhood friends. Yet he was a kind enough old fool. I would usually not even give a second thought to the nonsense he sold within it's musty, dimly lit walls, but on one particular day there was something new to peruse. Off in a corner, propped up for display was a strange looking tome. It's cover appeared flesh like and rough. No doubt an old leather covered journal, as when I opened it I found no publication date, no indication of where it was published or who it's author was. Filled with strange scribblings and rather repugnant sketches, I browsed through the work with disdain and just enough fascination to keep me engaged. Finally, I came to a page that was readable. Written in a hurried scribble was the phrase, "Cthulhu, the damnable and horrific, Elder god of timeless wastes, upon my miserable flesh and through my tremulous hand has penned this chronicle". The corresponding sketches showed what, now in hindsight, appeared to be a being not unlike myself. Alive yet dead. Living, yet dying and rotting. Prominently displayed upon the next page was a drawing of the truly horrific aforementioned, "Cthulhu". Sneering in disgust, I slammed the book shut, putting it back in it's place and muttered under my breath, "Elder-god my ass...absolute stupidity". After my usual perfunctory conversation with the old man, I left the store without a second thought to what I had viewed and read inside the old journal. It was just the same old nonsense relayed by so many pagan mythologies. Soon enough, my tune would be markedly different, my mind torn asunder, there would be no one there to hear my screams... tune in this Friday for more... | | |
| "Death, Where Is Thy Sting?" Seriously, I'd like to know... I have found a young man here locally willing to aid me in cataloging my experiences. When retrieving my writings he is never allowed into the condemned, ramshackle warehouse within which I now dwell. He is only permitted to come by at night so as to minimize the chances of the smell overwhelming him. The heat of the daytime sun can really kick up the fragrant properties of a rotting corpse. He has never seen my face nor will he ever. This is more for his benefit than my own. I know this arrangement won't last. In youth curiousity is an overwhelming urge that must be alleviated. He will no doubt pay an unwanted visit with equally curious friends, or worse still parents, in tow and then I will undoubtedly need to move on. I have been dead now for roughly a year. As I write this I am not even sure how one should define terms such as "dead" and "alive". Regardless, my body has succumb to much of the decomposition one would expect for a corpse which has existed for a years time. There are, of course, a certain number of "anomalies" involved in my present situation. Least of which would be the fact that I am at present relaying experiences as a "dead" man to you. The consumption of my flesh by the various bacterias and fauna which invariably inhabit corpses seems to have been kept at a minimum. Perhaps partly due to the peculiarity of my condition and partly due to the fact that a few months back I actually doused myself in an old barrell of DDT I found here, rusted and abandoned, in a corner of the warehouse I hide myself away from the world in. It seems that even though I am "dead", in as much as my body and it's various systems and processes have ceased to function, I have an undeniable instinct to remain "alive" and "intact". Losing flesh, fingers, teeth, etc often leaves me devastated. Three months ago I lost my eyes. Yet somehow, I possess a vision of sorts. The world for me is now in light greys and shades of white and black. My vocal chords have long since withered away, thus I am incapable of speech. Without a respiratory system to push air across those chords, they are not of much use. If you were to ask me, the one thing I remember most about "death" initiallly, that is at it's onset, I would have to say the moment my respiration ceased. Apparently one's nerve endings do not immediately cease to function at death. Being aware of my 'dying', I could feel my lungs hanging in my chest cavity like two wet sacks of cement. Useless and cumbersome, mocking me as I gasped for air. My heart, no longer beating, weighed heavy in the center of my chest. It's comforting "thump thump" now lay silent. The instinct to breathe was still there but with no organs functioning by which to carry that desire to it's fruition, I can only describe it as drowning at the bottom of a very deep pool. Breathing is taken for granted by the "living", it is one of the 'little things' I truly miss. The most logical question you have is how in the hell does a man end up one of "the living dead"? Truly the fault is all my own and my lack of respect for things which I do not understand and my obnoxious need to mock and ridicule what, in my own mind, I deem absurd. For that indiscretion I have paid a most heavy price. tune in this Friday for more... | | |
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