The man had stood and leaned against the wall near the door, his hand to his mouth, as if he had only just realized what he had done. He met Friedrich’s gaze, and in that moment, Friedrich realized that Niles’ actions had been a function of the cocaine. It was the only thing that could have transformed his friend into the monster that had destroyed the madman’s face. The thing which had saved them all, as well.
In due time, the others roused, and they staggered from the underground lair, finding themselves in daylight in much the same way as men released from the darkest of prisons. They blinked against the brilliant day that melted the snow from the ground. Despite their exhaustion, both spiritual and physical, they made a survey of the area to see if any of the villagers remained as much as to escape the horror of the graveyard they had almost joined. To their surprise, they found another tunnel which led underground and to the lake itself.
In that chamber, which glowed with light from the tunnel entrance, they saw a dock, and past that, a contrivance similar to the machine in the underground lair. The stench nearly overwhelmed them, but they felt compelled to investigate.
It was shaped like a monstrous beast, hulled with a patchwork of skin. This, they realized, had been the demise of the villagers. Not only had they fallen prey to this madman, but their corpses had been defiled to create his mad machines. They stared at it for a moment, in silence.
A chamber near the fore of the mechanical beast remained open, a flap of skin not yet sewn taut against the rest. Beneath it was a heart, immobile.
“We should destroy it.” Said Wilson quietly.
The others nodded, and they turned to retrieve the torches from the other lair. Niles looked back for a moment. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” Friedrich turned, hoping that perhaps one of the villagers had survived. Niles was staring fixedly at the beast and the heart that lay exposed within it.
“I thought … within the beast, for a moment …” said Niles. “No, perhaps … perhaps I was wrong.”
“It is likely that you are seeing things.” said Rufus. “It’s possibly a side effect of your treatment.”
Niles gave the man a dark look but said nothing further. Nevertheless, he glanced back from time to time as they climbed up the ramp and into the warmth of the sunlight above.
Entry Six
It was after dark by the time they returned to Dalmigavie on the dead madman’s cart. Two days without sleep had passed for all but Friedrich; their hearts were sore and their souls heavy. After a cursory cleansing of Friedrich’s wound and the requisite stitching, they fell to the beds they had borrowed in the first house and, each in their own way, tried to sleep.
The next morning, they awakened and determined to take one last look around the village, in the hopes that there might have been survivors. Both chambers had been destroyed. The Fellowship had agreed that the madman’s actions had been too dark, too full of sorrow, to expose to the world. Friedrich had been spared the worst of it. His memory of the time was gone, washed away by some unknown force. Upon awakening, his last memory was of opening the cupboard. The rest of the Fellowship, after quiet consorting, had agreed to spare him the memory for fear of trauma madness, and falsified a tale of injury.
The days had begun to warm, if marginally, as they grew longer with each passing day, and it had not snowed since their first night. With the requisite healing time Friedrich’s wound required before he would be able to ride out, they explored. As they walked outside, they found that many of the houses had clear paths which had been drawn to the doors. As they walked past one of the final domiciles, a drift of snow fell from the roof and caught Friedrich’s eye.
He hardly paid it any mind at all, and it was by providence alone that he took note of what was revealed. As the snow fell from the roof, it dislodged that which had covered, and thus revealed a small charm which had been hung beneath the lip of the roof. It was rustic and in no way unfitting to the rest of the village, but something about the collection of sticks took hold of a small part of his mind, and after two steps, Friedrich had looked back to the item. It was then that the intrigue caused him to the pull in the reins as he was consumed by what he observed. He muttered, “That charm,” under his breath as he turned his horse for a better look. Once doing so, it was clear that he had seen the likes before, or at least a resemblance there of.
“I have seen this before,” said Friedrich, his face grim.
By his lead, the fellows then began to dust the snow from the posts around the house. It is by this that they revealed a number of inscriptions which matched those within the tome that had so intrigued Friedrich in the previous days. Desperate to find a meaning for the senseless slaughter and the madman’s motivations, they spent the rest of the week painstakingly dusting and searching for any indication of inscription or insignia, and then noting and cataloging its likeness and location.
Most notable was a prayer which had been scratched into a wall which begged Jesus to save the house from “the Elder Gods than those of Christianity”. The Fellowship had thus concluded that some ancient pagan worship perpetrated had consumed the village, carefully concealing the truth from Friedrich. But this prayer brought as much confusion as revelation, for the quality of the markings, which were at its best of marginal quality, become increasingly sloppy and difficult to read.
These words read Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn, and every time Friedrich read them, his chest ached.
Entry Seven
With Friedrich’s injury healed enough to travel, the Fellowship had departed Dalmigavie. Once again, they found themselves in the common room of an inn, though all had taken to drinking less.
Niles pushed back his chair and reclined, slipping his hands into his waistcoat pockets. His visage was darker than it had been before Dalmigavie, as though something deeper lived in his mind now. “I have here a matter in Hungary which might intrigue us,” said he as he lifted a slip for his fellows to see. “There is reportedly a mad hermit whom the locals believe to be some sort of god who consumes blood.”
Friedrich cocked his head and grunted with interest. “That is a fascinating concept. Do they have a name for it?”
“Yes,” said Niles, polishing off the last of the pork scratchings, “apparently such a creature is known as an oupire.”
“I have never heard of such a thing,” said Friedrich. “Such a long journey would require an air voyage. Perhaps, seeing as we will likely be landing at a city of importance, we can visit the local university and make some inquiries on the subject.”
Weyland perked when he heard this. “I have been intending to explore the eastern provinces at some point. Father is engaged in negotiations with some labor groups in the region and hopes to establish regional production plants for the Consortium. Perhaps a trip to the east will allow me to provide some insight on matters of consequence.”
“I have no objection,” said Rufus with a shrug, “and it seems to me to be more practical than riding in circles on our island. Besides, what is the point of traveling if we never go abroad?”
Niles nodded. “Wilson? What say you?”
“We might as well. What could possibly go wrong?”
About the Author
Peter J. Wacks is a bestselling cross-genre writer and Novelist. He has worked across the creative fields in gaming, television, film, comics, and most recently, when not busy editing, he spends his time writing novels. There are over 3.5 million copies of his stories in circulation.
Peter started his career in the gaming industry when he created the international bestselling game Cyberpunk CCG. Being convinced that no one reads these things, he will now also mention that there is a full sized TARDIS sitting in his office. Once it is operational, he intends to travel back to Victorian London to check out the local scene.
He has been a panelist, guest speaker, and Guest of Honor at a combined total of over 250 conventions, trade shows, organizations, and colleges—including GAM
A, Mensa, and UCLA.
J.R. Boyett was born on a rural island in the Puget Sound and spent much of his youth in the heart of Dixie. He enlisted in the U.S. Army at the age of seventeen, where he served for five years before suffering a career ending injury. In 2010 he received his Bachelor of Arts from Pacific Lutheran University and is currently pursuing a Master of Divinity at Fuller Theological Seminary.
A philosopher and theologian, J.R. Boyett follows in the long tradition of using fictional narrative to not only entertain the reader, but to examine essential questions about ourselves and the world in which we live.
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