Jeremy's Letter
They are coming. I have freed hellish forces and now the price must be paid. Derceto is the prey of evil. The sun has set. They will find my body but will not have my soul. I can imagine the master's fury and the terror in the hearts of his slaves. I hear their foosteps. Some may understand what I have done. May God forgive me. Farewell. Jeremy Hartwood.
Extract from the Golden Fleece
Fragment of the Myth of the Golden Fleece
Translation: Edouard de Vielban Hesperides Publications
Then Perseus came across Ichios, who had been turned into stone. He spoke to his companions and said, "Beware of the Medusa. He who looks into their eyes is doomed to the same fate as that which befell poor Ichios and will never more set eyes on Seriphos." "Must we go blindfolded ?" asked Ymelops. "Take up your bronze shields and polish them until they flash in the sun," answered Perseus. "Fill your hearts with courage.
May Artemis guide us as though we were an arrow from her quiver."
But Ymelops was not satisfied. "Why do that, Perseus ? Is three inches of sharpened metal not enough to destroy these accursed creatures ?" Then Perseus drew his sword, which shone and glittered in the sun, and with it he dazzled Ymelops. "Now what can you see ?" The companions of Zeus' son laughed. "Let us set to work, so that our shields may shine like mirrors."
The Trial of Captain Pregzt
The Trial of Captain Pregzt As reported by his faithful companion Elishah Smith known amongst his fraternity by the awful name of Capt'n Elie Hell.
Transcribed from the log found aboard the wreck of the frigate Astarte by H. Hartwood.
"By all the devils !" roared Pregzt, galring at William, the judge. "Curse it, Will, it would take much more than every cannon in the blasted Navy to make me change my mind ! You're the greatest blackguard that ever joined our fraternity. Am I not Pregzt, captain of the Astarte and bloodiest villain in all the seven seas ?
Bloody Ezech, they call me. And you think I'll tell you where I hid my treasure ?" The tribunal of the corsair's fraternity murmured at this. Pregzt was indeed all he claimed. The judge, One-Eyed William, slammed his fist on the table and silence was restored. "Shut your mouth, Pregzt.
You didn't pay the Fraternity its rightful share, and that means only one thing: you'll hang by the neck from a yard-arm, you scurvy cur.
Here's the rope, twisted by Satan himself !" "You threaten me, Will ? Many a man better than yourself has lived to regret holding a cutlass in my face. You'll be begging for mercy, mark my words !"
That shook One-Eyed William and no mistake. Danny waked his hook in the air and shouted, "Pregzt was always a loud-mouth ! The law says we hang him !" The Jurors took up the cry, "Hang him !"
It was Pregzt's turn to slam his fist on the table. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. "You fools. You want to kill what will never die ? Try it !" Once more, the assembled corsairs murmured. There was unease in the air. They remembered what happened to Chuck the Gizzard-Slitter, the man who opened his mouth once too often...
It was night and a bitter wind whipped the New England coast. Snug inside the Dead Horse Inn, one of the Astarte's men was talking. His name was Chuck and his subject was black magic. He told stories of human sacrifices, voodoo rites and zombies.
He told a tale of a time when their luck was down and they were holed up in a Florida swamp. Pregzt went missing. When he returned, he shouted "'Tis the Devil that guides us now, me hearties !"
Whether that was true or not, the Astarte began talking loot after juicy loot. The favourite song of the Astarte's men, "Crash the bones", was replaced by a new one:
"A skull ! Go to port Saber ! To starboard ! Pass over that will And with death you'll deal. If you cut a rope, Cut the right I hope, Or then, I don't mind The death you will find."
The next day, as you may have guessed, Chuck's body was found with a dagger plunged between his shoulder blades. Chuck's face was fixed in a ghastly grin... Molten lead had been poured down hiw throat.
Whatever way things happened next, and I don't have the detail, Pregzt was with us again and we set sail for Florida. We anchored the frigate not far from New Orleans.
Taking a few trusted companions with him, Pregzt set off into the swamp. They carried large wooden chests with them. Two days later, we heard shots being fired and screams. Pregzt arrived soon after that and claimed they'd been attacked by alligators. He alone managed to escape with his life.
He went on to say that the time had come to share out the spoils of our many loots. I was given command of the Astarte, while Pregzt handed three chests over to the crew; the chests were full of gold and precious gemstones. The rum flowed that night and the stars shone bright.
All at once I noticed a tall dressed in black. Pregzt introduced him to me: "Here's a hearty mate ! You can call him Keith. Many a tale he could tell ! Pregzt laughed loudly and held up a roll of parchment... "And his hide-out; none-better !"
The parchment fell to the ground, partly unrolling. I noticed what seemed to be a map of underground tunnels, a veritable maze of caverns. Pregzt continued, "I'm giving up the pirate's life. The Astarte's in your hands now, my lad. She's a fine ship and my reputation goes with her. Should any man call me coward, then break his head for me.
I'm leaving you only because I've found a treasure more precious than the purest of gold ! Har har har !"
Keith spoke to him then, "It is midnight. They are ready and we must go." The stranger turned his cold eyes on me and said in a soft, chilling voice, "Sometimes Pregzt talks too much. Forget what he just said, and maybe you'll live !"
The fellow's words froze the marrow in my bones and it was all I could do to mumble "I'll not breathe a word". The canoe slid away into the night. Their torches disappeared in the distance of the swamp. My snoring companions didn't hear the insidious rhythm of far-off drums.
Jeremy Hartwood's Notebook
Diary
of J. Hartwood
September 27, 1924. I have decided to keep this diary. Too many inexplicable events have taken place recently. Never have dreams so haunted my every waking moment. Perhaps my romantic mind was too dull, and has only now woken up to these new paths and visions.
Some, seeing my recent paintings, may question my sanity. I can only ask them, "What is sanity ? Where does madness begin ?"
September 28, 1924. The night is pitch black. I am again drenched in sweat. I was wandering in dunes, among giant standing stones. They were arranged in a circle and the wind whistled about them. I plugned my hand into the soil, and felt that repulsive thing which was trying to catch me.
It seized me. I struggled to break free of its loathsome embrace, and managed to tear my hand away; it was covered in sticky substance. I was gripping a knife...
October 5, 1924. The stone circle is a pentacle. Derceto's library is filled with books on the occult. I will study those books until I find some explanation for the dreams. The visions that haunt me must be connected to my discoveries. I shall have to undertake a profound exploration of my dreams.
December 16. Dear God ! I have found the knife. It was hidden here and what I have learned fills me with apprehension. It is a sacrificial dagger, belonging to some unholy cult. The thought of that blade tearing through human flesh horrifies me. Yet I must continue my research. Derceto is a storehouse of treasures.
Was my father right after all ?
January 23 I spend all my days plunged in dusty books. The servants are convinced I am mad. At night, I awaken them with my screams. The dreams are draining what sanity I still have. I have tried staying awake, but in vain. My visions have changed, no doubt the influence of my father's research.
February 7, 1925 The dark man (that is what I call him) has revealed his true face to me. He appeared, as usual, near the fireplace, but this time, he approached me.
His terrible smile will haunt me to my dying day. His breath was ice and his burning eyes froze me; I could not move ! I know, as surely as I have ever known anything, that the face I saw, the face that has turned my nights into hellish torture, is the mask of death.
March 10 My exhaustion is beyond description. The endless reading burns my eyes. It seems that pirates frequented the area. Doctor Herbert insists I keep to my bed. I have moved to another bedroom and sleep much better now. The dark man has not gone, however. I know it. He will wait for as long as he must...
Unless I, Jeremy Hartwood, can find a way to send him back to whatever hell he comes from.
March 11 My poor knowledge of Greek and Latin is a serious handicap to my reading. I have nevertheless made a great step forward. I drew the symbol on the floor: he can no longer go there. I want him to understand that I can do the same thing in my bedroom.
I can imagine his rage and frustration; only last night he found his way back into my dreams.
March 13 The translation will seriously dent what money I have left. I cannot paint ! My pictures are clearly the work of a lunatic. The collector Thornhill's embarrassed smile was proof of that...
March 29. He has come back... He found the door to my dreams. I am too weary to attempt any defense. I have no strenght left to fight and he knows it. He considers me dead already. Could I possibly...
March 30 How ironic...The cave my father sought for so many years is here ... beneath the house. Waites, the butler, discovered a crack in the cellar wall. A breeze blows in through it, icy and repugnant, ... I am filled with horror at the thought of my father dying in this place.
I will carry to my grave the vision of his face contorted in the agony of that fatal heart attack.
His body was twisted. He had wept... His finger nails were torn and bloody from scrabbling at the floor. Doctor Gray concluded that death had been due to a heart attack. It was Waites who, sometime later, was informed that my poor father had in fact bitten off his tongue and choked on his own blood.
March 31 I explored the caverns in a dream. The dark man came with me. Strangely, I felt almost well. How can I describe what I saw ? No. What words are capable of explaining such evil ?
I realized that my death was of no interest to him. The dark man wants something else; he seeks a body. His avid servants are now free... I am the cause. It is almost funny.
A curse is on Derceto, from the foundations to the very rooftop. I can no longer struggle, let alone eradicate the evil that grips the house. The end is very near. I can feel it. I have taken the decision to... May he who finds this diary pray for my soul.
Diary of a Journey
A Brightness From Afar By Lord Boleskine An account of his celebrated voyage to New England. 1824 Aleister Publications. Cambridge.
Following a splendid journey, the sunny harbor came into sight. The locals were much impressed with one's arrival in their midst. One had time to sketch several of them and notice signs of degeneracy. Some children showed one their queer hands that would inspire uneasiness.
Upon the promise of a few coins, a child has undertaken to reveal to one a most "prodigious phenomenon" of a natural order. One admits to being skeptical as to the prodigiousness of the marvel, whatever it may be; indeed, one suspects it to be little more than an evening stroll to some charming wooden hut situated in the forst hereabouts. One will nonetheless go, for it is always well to submit to such local enthusiasms.
One admits to being somewhat flabbergasted ! The Milky Way shone like the fires of the Apocalypse from the inky celestial vault. Certain distant stars, normally invisible to the naked eye, were clearly visible, glittering indeed with a strange intensity. The heavy clouds that had settled above the village had no hold over that place.
It would be pointless to offer here the names of the constellations one perceived in utter clarity; apart from the interminable length of such a list, one might conceivably risk being charged with exaggeration !
The cross cast its shadow on the ground. The sea, in the distance, was dead calm. Tonight one will return to that spot and draw those stars. Tomorrow night, one will at last see Halley's comet in all its brilliance. The youngster will carry torches. Despite one's developed sense of direction, honed by years of travel, one feels incapable of finding one's way though the dark forest unaided.
The drawings will, one is convinced, set light to the souls of men !
Such a moon ! One lost count of the craters, so sharply was their definition. Loath as one is to seem excessive in one's appraisal, one cannot but feel that the forest clearing is indeed a place outside the common laws of time and space. Surely it is not an hallucination !
How strange to consider that idle conversation, some research in the British Museum and a voyage to this backward village should culminate in so astounding a discovery. It may be that others have noticed the extraordinary nature of that place; how else could one explain the presence of that cross ?
The Creatures of the Night
The Creatures of Night By Hubertus the Bald translated from Latin by his brother in prayer Fratre Johan Markus
Of Monstrosity You who read me, know that night engenders monsters and that night creatures exist. The accursed book of Abdul Al Azred is clear on this matter: "That is not dead which can eternal lie." Unhappy he who knows that book.
Unhappy he whose eyes alight upon that foulest of texts. Unhappy he who implores the standing stones. For he will free the powers of darkness.
Of the Pit Stagnant waters are like the memory of men. Beneath the surface calm, clawed beasts await and are known to initiates as the Deep Ones.
Awaiting his prey, the Deep One seizes him and drags him down to the abyss where Dagon the cruel god swims and reveres him whose name may not be pronounced.
Of Libraries Unhappy he who frees the prowler. Unhappy he who meets the prowler erring among the books. He generates the vagabond that comes from other spheres. He believes the vagabond does not exist.
He will feel the embrace of death for, in the eyes of the vagabond, books are no more than dreams, stone no more than wind. The vagabond knows how to take the breath of the reckless.
Of Strife He who speaks does not know and believes he is able to kill the creatures of the night. Folly. Evil is conjured up by science and secrecy.
He who prowls among books will perish by the blade. He who flies in the dark caverns will scream in fear. He who swims in the depths will evaporate. But he who believes he knows, knows nothing. He who knows, says nothing.
Of Death There are domains more terrible than death. That is not dead which can eternal lie. Each creature is conjured up and is not dead but returns to the origins. A monster, a science. Steel kills the vagabond who never dies.
Translator's note. ++ Here ends the manuscript of Hubertus, who died in the library of the convent of Toroella in the year of Our Lord 1666. Requiescat in pace. +++
Signs and Rituals
The Book of Yael. Signs of Stone. Eucharistic Rituals of Forbidden Cults. ++++ Texts collated by Monsignor Vachey. Legate in the Curia of the Vatican. +++
Numerous devilish cults speak of monstrous creatures called the Old Ones. These supernatural beings are believed to be possessed of powers equivalent to those of the gods of antique religions. Adepts of such cults refer to forbidden literature in order to cause these firghtful entities to appear before them.
What serious student of folk myths has not come across the names of Cthulhu and Shub Niggurath ?
It must be said that these creatures wield tremendous power and are difficult to control once they have been unleashed into the world. Those who serve "He who goes in shadows" protect themselves with signs of stone, carved into the walls of houses or engraved on various objects.
For these misguided servants of evil, the best protection appears to be that afforded by "the sign of the ancient gods", engraved in MNAR stone, a heavy material, said to be disagreeable to the touch.
The sinful practices of those who fall into such erros can only lead to the darkest of despair are a mortal danger to the soul. Such monsters as those invoked by these follhardy individuals are engendered when reason drops its guard. Man is easily tempted into perversion.
It is why we must forever remain alert and renounce Satan with each breath we take. His ways are infinite in number.
The Sacrificial Dagger
The Sacrificial Dagger.
Otto Stern.
Lumina Books.
The importance placed on ritual sacrifice is constant in religious cult practice. Propotiating the gods is a theme common to many religions; the Old Testament affords many examples. Primitive polytheistic belief systems integrate sacrifice in their rituals as part of the recurrent process of reaffirmation and, naturally enough, group cohesion.
The members of the social and religious community come together in an act of purification and atonement.
It would be erroneous to imagine the act of human sacrifice, linking priest, offering and god (cf Manzetti, "Stone Cults"), as anything less than a vital focussing of the group's fault. The act also ensures the continuing appeasement of the god, but only if practiced by a recognized officiating priest using the appropriate instrument.
Studies made concerning primitive religious groups bear witness to the central role of sacrifice in living ritual.
My own work in the field of ehtno-psychology brought me into contact with a sorcerer living in the region of Arkham. He introduced me to the "rite of steem", linked to a ceremony known as "Adoring the Black Goat of the Woods with a thousand youngs." The god being adored is known as the Vagabond.
Here, the dagger's role, which allows the life-breath to pass from one dimension to another, is essential.
The Vagabond is a frightening figure, being able to move where he wants and to kill those who have displeased the goat-god for whom he acts as go-between. The goat is clearly a fertility god. The priest, having spoken the invocation, must choose the appropriate dagger for the sacrifice.
The knife with the sinusoidal blade that must be dipped seven times, on nights when the moon is full, in water that has been distilled a hundred times, will be laid aside, since it would send the Vagabond back into his own dimension (see illustration).
The priest will rather choose the dagger with the curved blade that is more appropriate for slitting of the lamb's throat. This act transfigures the sorcerer-priest and plunges the assembled worshippers into a divine trance.
Reflections on the Power of the Verb
Juan Luis Jorge --- De Bibliotheca Reflections on the power of the verb in certain texts. Archaos Publications
1919 Stafford
Translation does not alter the occult power contained within such forbidden texts. The malevolent energy is in no way diminished. The spell must be cast aloud and clearly, in certain languages or little-known dialects... M'ghlafg fthang...
The reader will understand that, in the light of these revelations, I would be foolhardy to continue quoting from the text I have before me. If spoken aloud in its entirety, it would surely awaken powerful and malignant forces.
I will go further and say that simple reading of some of the more technical passages, describing specific practices, is in itself a perilous exercice; the ill-prepared reader can easily fall prey to attacks of demented hysteria not unlike those described in cases of individuals said to be possessed by evil spirits*.
- I recommend the study made by Zempf: "Urbain Grandier and Loudun" and the reports made by the Reverend Richard Price concerning a number of astonishing (to say the least) exorcisms carried out in a parish near Providence.
Given what I have written, we must be grateful to the librarians of the British Museum who have never allowed consultation of the owrk of Al Azif's startling work, the infamous Necronomicon.
Copies of that work do exist, in spite of the zeal of book-burning inquisitors. For proof, we need look no further than the British Museum, of course, and the sealed archives of the Miskatonic University of Arkham.
Other examples of books whose evil can be unleashed by any thoughtless reader are Von Junzt's Von unausspechlichen Kulten and the abominable De Vermis Mysteriis by Ludwig Prinn, whose sordid death should be a lesson to all those tempted by a study of the occult.
De Vermis Mysteriis
Ludwig Prinn ///////////////////// De vermis Mysteriis /////////////////////
In nomine invocatoris, si non sanctificatus es, cave. De vermis mysteriis non absolvo follem legendum fatum et eum versus: "tibi, magnum innominandum signa stellarum nigrarum et..."[1]
Story of a Louisiana Plantation
If Rocks Could Talk or The Story of a Louisiana Plantation
by The Marquis de Champfrey
After the criminal selling off of Florida by the foul usurper, my father elected to remain in this inhospitable land, where we were free at least to express our royalist feelings and hope our country would come to its senses. In 1818, a certain Pickford bought up Ledoux's land, after the poor fellow had ruined himself in unfortunate speculation. Pickford soon turned out to be the most loathsome human we had ever encountered.
He was an adventurer of the worst kind, nouveau riche and bloated with a grotesque sense of self-importance. First came the incessant army of men with shovels, digging into the mountains of earth that was to fill in the surrounding swamp. The undertaking was quite stupendous. We learned from a slave that the final objective was to connect the existing caves with another one, of gigantic proportions.
Racked by a mania of persecution, Eliah Pickford constantly fired his workers and hired new ones. He did all he could to keep anyone from learning about his plans. My father was amused, and said, "The poor fool will end up getting lost in his own cave !" The walls went up and tongues started wagging. Our detestable neighbor had been a sailor; a ruffian grown rich on questionable trade. Distasteful stories were told of him.
When the work was finished, Pickford invited us to the opening of his rambling mansion, which he named "Derceto". My father asked what the strange name meant. Pickford answered, "Derceto reminds me of Astarte, the fertility goddess. Around here, the name is Shub-Niggurath, I believe". That a name so steeped in evil should be said aloud came as not such a shock to my father, as he himself confided in me some while later.
We left immediately.
In June of 1862, Derceto was burned down in unexplained circumstances; it was undoubtedly the deed of some jealous Yankee or another. It was amazing to watch the servants rushing into the flames to try and save their bullet-riddled master. After that terrible night, Derceto fell into ruin. Its blackened walls were soon overgrown, as human-built works always are, by ever-present nature.
In 1875, the property was eventually bought by a gentleman whose name was Howard Hartwood. I was sorry that my father, who delighted in fine conversation, was no longer alive to enjoy the company of this new neighbor. Learned and well-versed in history, he had made a particular study of piracy. It was Hartwood who told me that Pickford had commanded a ship that flew the flag of piracy. That explained the scoundrel's great wealth !
Hartwood was fascinated by Pickford, and undertook a great deal of research in an attempt to find some treasure that he was convinced the pirate had hidden. He went through the ruins inch by inch. He then had the burnt-out house rebuilt exactly as it had been, and refurbished the library that had miraculously escaped the flames on the night of the great fire.
Hartwood set about studying every volume in that library and often talked to me of his research. He was a handsome widower, deeply attached to his son Jeremy, who was later to become a professional artist.
Hartwood worked incessantly, first from the room I offered him, then from his own freshly-restored home, which he re-baptized Derceto; I imagine he hoped to enlist the help of the god of good fortune in his treasure-hunt. As far as I have ever been able to tell, all his searching came to nothing. There was no lost treasure to be found at Derceto. I learned of Hartwood's death while I was in Paris. But that, as they say, is another story.
Terra Incognita
Unfinished Chapter of Terra Incognita by Jacob Van Ostadte.
A hitherto unpublished fragment of the manuscript, unearthed following indications furnished in the Vatican library's Expurgatory Index
In those icy and unwelcoming lands, the rites of wizards and healers are deeply rooted in ancient legend. Mysterious and cruel beings are thought to have ruled over the Arctic plains in times past. A cursed city, enclosed by massive walls, is believed to stand to this day. It contains fabulous treasures and is inhabited by the degenerate descendants of those who instilled centuries of terror in the hearts of the people.
These people, naturally placid, are seized with rage and horror at the very mention of the "Prisoners of the Ice". Were these dreadful captives to be freed from their frozen cells, they would reap a horrifying tribute of human flesh. These blood-curdling beings may be invoked by certain ritual words. They can even be controlled, albeit with the greatest of difficulty.
I admit to being impressed by these tales, repeated to me on many occasions and in a number of different places druing my travels in the region. I have also seen troubling cult objects, sculpted in a material unknown to me. Another remarkable fact is that local Eskimos experience great distaste in pronouncing certain words and invariably avoid saying them.
Here is a living example of the power that words contain. As it is said in the Bible: In the beginning was the word.
The Sons of the Sun
The Sons of the Sun and of the Shadows. Lieutenant Lope de Vega's account of his astounding travels to the land of the Aztecs.
"Holy Christ," cried captain Cortez, astonished by the strange rite we beheld. We found the savages half-naked. They were throwing balls of silver and gold at each other. They laughed as if demented, clearly maddened by some heathen drug. And yet, should one of them fail to catch the ball thrown in his direction, the poor devil was seized and dragged off to be sacrificed in their temple.
As we discovered, this frightful game was a ritual most holy to them, and symbolized the movement of the heavenly bodies. The dropping of a ball foretold a catastrophe. That is what the Aztecs believed, in their godless ignorance. Their countless deities could only be appeased through endless human sacrifices. The victim's heart, which was still beating, lay in the hand of the murderous priest.
The interior of the temple was surprisingly cool. The weight of our armor, our exhaustion, even the burden of our suffering ... they were all banished by a sense of awe that the crudely magnificent altar instilled. In the tomb-like silence, a dep voice chanted an incantation. The majestic statue of the water goddess Chalchihuitlicue seemed to throb with vitality.
This massive stone, draped in a golden cloak and studded with precious stones, was coming to life before our very eyes.
Horror of horrors ! The granite eyes of the statue, empty of life only moments before, were now injected with blood. We staggered back in amazement. Dom José was taken by a fit of convulsions. He tried to raise up his crucifix, as if to ward off an attack by demons. The heathen priest laughed cruelly. The statue's mouth cracked open in a deathly grin, baring teeth sharpened to dagger-points.
Captain Cortez cried "Attack !". But it was no use; we were glued to the spot.
Despite our efforts, we were unable to move. Our armor seemed to be bolted to the temple floor. Our legs weakened and we collapsed in a thunder of steel. Only Cortez had the presence of mind to unsheathe his dagger. He hurled it at the cackling priest... Four inches of the finest Toledo steel buried itself in the heathen's face. His blood spurted, splashing the now lifeless idol. We picked ourselves up with difficulty.
Never will I forget that terrbiel moment. My companions, naturally enough, told tales of devilish enchantments cast upon our armor. Whatever the truth of that, I could not deny that the supreme god of the fourth universe had treated us as mere playthings. I am convinced that a terrible energy is yet contained within that heathen statue; a power strong enough to change a proud conquistador into a helpless puppet.
Drawing of Chalchihuitlicue by Dom José De La Sierra done before the destruction of the Aztec temple of Tenochtitlan.
Fragments of the Book of Abdul
Fragments of the Book of Abdul.
In the antique city of dead R'lyeh, Cthulhu dreams and waits. In the pit of time the unspeakable lies in wait. That is not dead which can eternal lie. R'lyeh, your blocks of stone seal the ritual that gives birth to fear.
Cthulhu fhtagn, Cthulhu fhtagn. Iaeeh. Iaeeh.
Let he who knows how to invoke the stones act. It is time. Let the shadow of Cthulhu darken the sky. May the servitor of the black Goat of the Woods with a thousand youngs sound his flute in honour of the unspeakable.
Cthulhu fhtagn, Cthulhu fhtagn. Iaeeh. Iaeeh.
May he who may not be named cast his withering gaze upon the unbeliever for he is the door, the key and the guardian of the door and holds you now in his immense power.[2]
Memories
Memories By Alistair Boleskine Printed in London A. Machen editor. 1833
It was during a conversation with G... that one first heard of the New England fishing village of I... The area was apparently the ideal place from which to witness unusual phenomena in space. The quality of the air, along with the conjunction of several favorable factors made one impatient to get started. Having gleaned what information one could from the British Museum, one set off with all haste.
One's work on space and comets in particular had met with a warm response and one thought it judicious to include several original sketches of the phenomenon, sketches which one felt were sure to arouse a great deal of keen interest in the scientific circles of 1834... One refers naturally to the passage of Halley's comet.
Editor's note. Lord Boleskine's Memoirs end at this point. Who knows what extraordinary contributions he might still have made had he not succumbed, during his visit to New England, to dementia, followed by an early death in St. Andrew's Hospital ?
The Tale of Captain Norton
THE TALE OF CAPTAIN J.W. NORTON of the Army of the Union
June 17, 1862. The South was in collapse. Louisiana was open to us. I had, each day, to requisition victuals for our troops, and was aided in this endeavor by a score of brave men. The rebels were not yet ready to lay down their arms. The region was far from safe. I headed further and further west and questioned many freed slaves. From them I learned of a plantation on the coast. Its name was Derceto.
We received a less than hearty welcome. Only Pickford, the owner, behaved in a friendly manner. While my men counted cattle and grain reserves, I learned what I could from him. The man was most unusual and possessed an extraordinarily cultured mind. At nightfall, I gave orders for the men to bivouac at Derceto. Pickford invited my second in command, Lieutenant Patterson, and myself to dine.
The evening was splendid and our host proved a most entertaining conversationalist. While coffee was being served, Patterson went to inspect the men's camp. The cigar Pickford offered me was so acrid that my head began to spin.
I remembered campfire tales of fellow officers trapped by devilish Confederate tricks. My mind floated in a foul and dense fog, from which emerged the enlarged and deformed face of Pickford. He grinned at me.
Patterson's return chased off the nightmare. I heard shouts and firing from outside and found the strength to take out my revolver. I fired three shots. Pickford fell to the floor. Patterson then helped me out of the burning house. The air was filled with smoke. We resembled a company in disorderly retreat. I saw slaves leaping into the flames of that inferno. They were trying to save Pickford's life.
Demonia Particularis
Demonia Particularis Signs and Rituals
BY Heinrich Cassel
RING Publications
The ritual of Invocation demands that the Officiant be pure. We have already described the complex opeartions to be followed in order to call those that sleep in superior dimensions. We shall for the present limit ourselves to the sign of mutual recognition used amongst their number by adepts of the cult of the Old Ones. The sign also serves as protection when in the presence of a servent of evil.
The sign resembles a blessing, save that the first and little fingers are both folded beneath the thumb, whilst the second and third fingers are held up. It would appear that this sign has no effect on adepts of a certain rank with knowledge of particular secrets contained in the Corpus Demonicus. The use of such signs is not without considerable risk to the user during any attempt to call upon Those from Without.
A Pirate's Log Book
Memoirs of a Lost Soul
The mask must fall ! You who discover this manuscript, understand this; I am here at your side. I am waiting in the darkness of my crypt. Soon, you will belong to me. One of my slaves wrote this document. I have lived for three centuries and my name is Ezechiel Pregzt or Eliah Pickford... You may choose which to call me.
I do not hide out of fear. My power is immense. I have sailed the seven seas. My ship, the Astarte, spread terror through all the continents. The corsairs judges me like the Welsh judges of 1620... But they could not destroy me, and neither could the pirates. Now, I am immobilized... Damn Yankees !
Witchcraft, voodoo and the Cthulhu cult... I know them all. I have reigned and implored the stones. Only the Chtonian haunts the cavern and resists me; but he dare not attack ! I have need of a living body to regenerate myself. The Hartwoods managed to escape from me. But you who are reading these words, you will yield to my embrace !
I hear your ragged breath and smell the stench of your fear. I have vanquished death. I built Derceto. I know what it is to wait. Cthulhu helps me. My servants will lay you upon the sacrificial stone. My roar will rend the night. You will be mine and I shall reign once more. Come to me.