by Nelson Rusk
I must thank Sir Hugh in this last episode of my story, for he used his influence to keep me from the worst of the investigation, claiming I did not have the strength to face long and difficult interviews. Despite the many strange events attributed to me and the fact that some claimed to have seen me staggering out of the underground in a state of shock, with many burns and a crazed appearance even before the final fire broke out, I came out of this affair without blame or reprimand. The obvious disgust expressed by the investigators due to my physical appearance only added to their incentive to move on as quickly as possible.
I kept in touch with Sir Hugh until the last weeks of his life. The old man died of neurological disorders six months after the fire in the castle. There is no doubt in my mind that the overexcitement associated with these fantastic events tormented him and affected his physical and mental health. In the delirium of his last days, he shouted at anyone who would listen that there was still a fire cult going on in the underground of Quebec City. That courageous men throughout the years had pruned its branches but its roots persisted. That the abominable cult, through the same subterfuges, arsons, and kidnappings they always employed to their ends, would be reborn like a phoenix from its ashes.
I gave the eulogy leading Sir Hugh to his last rest. No one else volunteered, and he left no descendants. Fate is a strange thing. This man, who had in his time traveled far, met countless people, and in his final days bound his existence to what he considered the common good, died friendless, away from home and family, and forsaken by all but myself. In my reminiscences of the man, I put the emphasis on his love for all things old, obscure, strange, and historically charged. On his penchant for arcane arts, forgotten knowledge, and improbable facts. On forbidden sciences, cursed books, and indexed works. Few people present understood these references. They were not intended for them.
Without Sir Hugh, who had been in many ways my mentor and benefactor, and with whom I shared terrible secrets, my academic career collapsed and expired. I left without regret my field of study, of which I abhorred most of all the need to maintain human relations. They were painful to me. Instead, I began selling and buying rare books covering topics other booksellers avoided: alchemy, esoteric lore, witchcraft, occultism. I married books and renounced the strong emotions, the common places where my fellow human beings gathered and socialized, and the sunny parts of the human experience. The cold, heavy arms of solitude embraced me as it laid a bittersweet kiss on my lips, confining me to a reprobate life void of companionship.
My family, who always strove to support me as best they could, tried to keep in contact during this series of ordeals. They soon discovered, however, that their son died in the castle’s fire, despite the appearances and the assurances of the authorities. Father and mother could not find the strength to see beyond the façade erected around me. They tried. But they could not reconcile the beatified image of their cherished son with the repugnant being I had become, spiritually and physically. They no longer saw in me the aptitudes, desires, and temperament that made me who I was, neither could they recognized under my charred and disfigured flesh the distinctive, fraternal features that united humanity into a communal whole. I was as much a stranger to them as anyone they could meet on the streets, perhaps worse considering the terrible disappointment I represented.
Cut away from all human interactions, I spent my days and many nights absorbing knowledge of humanity's distant past. During my research, I got my hands on volumes that would have tempted many experienced collectors, if I had put them on sale. For these volumes eaten by worms, these collections of texts in which the author constantly wavered between genius and madness, I reserved for myself. I devoured them as if they contained the secret of life and death. And maybe they did.
Amid this carousel of books with ever more sordid and repulsive content, a primordial craving brought me back to the same compendium, which I kept close to myself at all times. A heavy book of blackened brown leather. With metal-plated front corners and a ribbed back. Identified on the cover by a sign I knew only too well. Entitled Ritual Hymns for the Annihilation of the World. Sir Hugh bequeathed it to me when he died. Driven by an indescribable urge, I had learned Sanskrit to read it in its original version. What discoveries I made then! The translation of this book was almost a crime. Only in its original version did it achieved its true letters of nobility. In this sublime language, the knowledge that the volume provided shone like the fruit of a fertile and generous tree. The reader only had to reach out and pick them up. How many sleepless nights I spent considering the greatness it evoked!
The mysteries revealed in this magnificent book transmuted my vision, broke down the barriers of my prejudices, and sanctified my passage toward a broader conception of reality. At the heart of all this, I learned as much as a human being could about Azathoth's cosmic ambitions, under his mystical avatar Shiva. His philosophy, far from repelling me, now seemed a necessary passage to allow and accelerate humanity's ascent to the higher spheres of existence. In the past, I approached the cycle of creation and destruction with my limited mortal senses. I feared death, dreading the moment my remains would fail and I would have to face the cold uncertainty of nothingness. The Indian perspective of reincarnation and perpetual life punctuated by an infinite number of cycles put an end to this deep-rooted fear.
The marvelous, poetic scriptures in Ritual Hymns for the Annihilation of the World introduced me to the Siba Aguna sect's immemorial ceremonies. They described through theatrical allegories and inspired orations the actions of Azathoth and his worshippers. Passed from generation to generation since the dawn of humanity, these rites celebrated Azathoth's ardent hand acting through all the significant and cataclysmic events of history.
At the turning points when the old heritage burned and the new order revived from its ashes, there lay the blessed action of Azathoth. Whenever decrepit empires lingered before the abyss, causing innumerable deaths and suffering as leaders of men lost their way in senescence, there Azathoth was to impart the final push that toppled these empires and paved the way for renewal. As cultures degenerated, leading men to worship death and false pleasures, to commit suicide in face of adversity rather than rejoice in its tribulations, Azathoth provided the salutary hand that fulfilled latent wishes for self-destruction.
Mankind, in its blindness, never could grasp the dual concepts of birth and destruction espoused by Azathoth, adoring one while dreading the other. Though almost all men sensed their inherent desires for annihilation, few in history could embrace what it truly meant to be a messenger of the Universal Destroyer. The enlightened ones knew that cosmic perennity required the eternal binding of creation and destruction. They accomplished what mankind could not: let go of all individual, near-sighted perception of reality and concentrate on the infinite aspect of the cosmic tapestry. In this perspective, no heroic deed lasted but the sublime process by which it manifested. No individual entity prevailed but the ever-renewed boon of life. No religious faith endured but the all-encompassing light of truth. No physical material existed that the molten fires of titanic planets had not reforged a thousand times.
Enthralled by the prodigious mysteries my studies of Azathoth revealed, I soon wanted to organize ceremonies in honor of the ancient god. As my residence was modest, I had to settle for Quebec City's underground to obtain the necessary means to perform the elaborate rituals necessary for the Master's awakening. Abandoned for years, the rooms were in an advanced state of decay but suited my needs. After a short time, individuals from all walks of life joined me, summoned by an unspeakable call. I accepted this emerging congregation despite my initial reluctance. It was a necessary evil. Any advanced spiritual enterprise had to go through an indoctrinated community devoted to the point of fanaticism.
As the cult’s deeds grew ever more exalted, a strange feeling began to overtake me. I felt my personality change or, rather, subside. My goals, fears, desires, and ambitions dissolved. The memories of my past life
became embroiled in the voluminous literature I consumed during the day as preparation for my luminous nights underground. Many times, I confused passages from my readings for recollections of my past life. It occurred that I uttered sentences I had read before and which I recognized only in hindsight. Time and logic became so alien to my sense of reality that the boundary between my life and those of my predecessors faded unto inexistence. Uncontained, my thoughts spilled into the boiling cosmic cauldron, from which they emerged galvanized. My identity merged with a greater consciousness as I evolved to wear the timeless mantle of the Messenger.
Years after my first baptism in fire, the order of things that led me to my present state became obvious. I should have known this was my destiny as soon as I was first marked. Azathoth chose me. He has made my flesh his blank canvas on which he can impregnate his divine drawings. The change infused in my appearance is the visible sign of my Master's transformational power. I no longer hide my physical form from the face of the world, on the contrary. I would like to show it to every man and woman living on this miserable ball of magma projected at an unfathomable speed in an obscure corner of the universe. I want everyone to observe and understand the revelations the Master has for them. Iä Shiva! Iä Azathoth! Annihilation and remodeling in the universal inferno await all servants of the Master. He alone will decide on your new form, and it will be in His image.
Glowing magma, ardent heart of the Earth.
Citizens of Quebec City, I am the Messenger and this manifesto is for you. You can curse me, bury me underground, or burn me, as you did of old, nothing will alter my course. Our immortal cult is always reborn, stronger and more solid, because it takes roots under the ground of your city and feeds on its sap like a worm on a corpse. Unquenchable fire and cosmic heat are the primary elements we manipulate. Creation and destruction are the endless concepts we worship. Iä! For the salvation of your species and for the greater glory of Azathoth, we will rain flames on the city until it becomes one with the universal inferno!
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[1] Photo: Thomas Bresson, under license by Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported (CC BY 3.0).
[2] Photo: Thomas Bresson, under Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license (CC BY 3.0).
Table of Contents
Prologue
January 11th, 1926
A Unique Opportunity
Preliminary Research
Marked by Fire
The Past Revealed
The Tale of Robert Muir, 1833-1834
First Suspicions About the Aide-De-Camp Phillips
An Insidious Evil Besieges Quebec City
Dreadful Discoveries on the Island of Abraham
January 12th, 1926
In the Footsteps of Mr. Jacquard
Scares Under the Castle
A Disquieting Disappearance
Threats Carried Out
Nocturnal Convocation
The Tale of Robert Muir, 1833-1834 (Continued)
Constable Thompson's Investigation
Unholy Ceremonies
Confrontation
Aftermath of the Fire
January 12th, 1926 (Continued)
Waking Nightmare
January 13th, 1926
Moment of Respite
In the Depths of the Past
Paying Respects
Oneiric Torments
Cursed Hymns
The Cult Strikes
At the Edge of Our Reality
January 14th, 1926
An Evil from the Dawn of Humanity
Descent into the Heart of Corruption
From Charybdis to Scylla
Epilogue