"A Templar Knight is truly a fearless knight, and secure on every side, for his soul is protected by the armour of faith, just as his body is protected by the armour of steel. He is thus doubly armed, and need fear neither demons nor men."

Bernard de Clairvaux, c. 1135, De Laude Novae Militae—In Praise of the New Knighthood

It wasn't long after setting out that the old familiar fear began to sink in. Long ago, his mentor had said that after facing darkness and succeeding, a man's fear is replaced with courage. Sebastian Rodrigues, Knight Templar, knew this was untrue. He had faced darkness before, many times. Fear never goes away. You only get better at dealing with it.
Sebastian allowed himself a moment to reflect. He mentally checked his supplies and equipment, making sure he had everything he would need. His armor and weapons, though battered by time and usage, were still tough. His horse, Endo, with whom he had survived many trials, was still strong. His faith, which had kept him from faltering, it was…

The smoke was still thick enough to obscure Sebastian's vision, even this far from the infected area. He was making his way out, to the nearest Templar fortress. He would be examined, and his possessions likely burned to prevent the infection's spread.
With him was the town's only survivor, a young, incredibly fortunate plague doctor. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time, attending to the sick in the dungeons. He hid himself within the stone walls as men became monsters.
On the journey back, Sebastian expected the standard questions. The questions that every survivor asked after this kind of event. “How could this happen?” “What other things like this are you hiding from us?” “How can you be a Templar? They were disbanded long ago!” But the doctor did not ask these questions. Their journey was mostly in silence.
They passed the ring of fellow Templars, tasked with controlling the spread of the blaze. Seeing them there, dressed in full holy regalia, finally prompted the doctor to speak. But he asked a question that Sebastian did not expect.
“How is it that you still believe in God?”
Sebastian hesitated a beat. “The world exists as a combination of opposites. Night and day, earth and sky, life and death. There is so much evil, so many terrible things in the world, that there must exist an equal amount of good in the world as well. That makes sense to me.”
Even through the mask, Sebastian could see the hollow expression in the doctor's eyes. “Does that really make sense to you? Or, do you believe it because that is the only way you can stay sane?”
Sebastian couldn't respond to that.

He shook himself out of his memories. This was no time for idle thoughts. On this mission, the last thing he needed was doubt.
In an effort to focus, Sebastian reviewed his current task. Messages had come from the south about a monster that consumed everything in its path. The Templars of that region claimed the monster was unstoppable; as ferocious as it was powerful. As the oldest surviving Knight in the country, Sebastian was personally requested by the Master to investigate. As resources for the Order dwindled, a lone Knight was a common way to investigate new threats. His report would determine a better way to deal with the threat.
Since this thing was supposedly unstoppable, Sebastian knew he could not confront the problem head on. But how was this possible? Even if he could stop it, was there any point? There was so much wrong in the world, what difference could his few good actions really make?

The soup was incredibly bland. It was clear that its maker could not afford quality spices or meats. But it was hot, and at that moment, that was everything Sebastian could ask for.
He was huddled with two fellow knights in a small, hidden room at the edge of the castle. There was barely enough room for a table and a few stools. Even if a fireplace would have fit, none of the knights would have been foolish enough to use it. Being a Knight Templar was still very much illegal, especially in this country. Some warmth would have been nice, but not nice enough to risk burning at the stake.
The other two were traveling companions, already well acquainted. The three had talked a little, but Sebastian wasn't feeling social, and was soon left out of the conversation. A few key words brought Sebastian out of his thoughts.
The dark-haired knight was staring intently at his companion, as if searching for something. “…impossible moral decision. There's no way to justify the alternative.”
His light-haired companion looked uncomfortable. “I don't know. It seems like there has to be a better way. I couldn't possibly decide.”
Dark-hair shook his head. “But, see, that's still making a choice. Your very inaction would be a decision.”
“I don't think I could bring myself to harm an innocent. It's not right. There has to be a way to prevent the worst outcome without sacrificing our own souls.”
As the argument got more intense, Sebastian thought about the problem himself. He knew what they were talking about. Everyone who was a member of the Templar Order long enough knew of the awful things often necessary to safeguard mankind. So far, the Knights had been lucky. Though their actions were for the greater good, many knights questioned if they were doing the right thing. It was a question that Sebastian constantly asked himself, yet he still had not found an answer.
The two were almost shouting now. “It is our mission to protect our fellow man. At any cost!” “Our mission is also to serve God, surely he wouldn't have us sin in his name!” “And instead cause the violent deaths of all living things He created?”
Sebastian knew the argument needed to stop before it escalated any further. There were plenty of men hostile to the Templar Order in the castle that would become curious if they overheard. So, Sebastian spoke. “Listen, brothers. Both of your arguments are valid, but your shouting them risks our capture. Please save this debate for another time.”
The dark-haired knight turned on Sebastian, “Well then, brother, what is your opinion on the matter?”
Sebastian sighed. “A long time ago, I would have given a definite response. But now, I'm not so sure. To be perfectly honest, I am starting to wonder if that is a question that can be answered at all.”

The decimation proved he was getting close. Great tears had been ripped into the earth, and both plant and animal life was broken and scattered around. The area was completely still, even devoid of insects. Sebastian had seen the effects of great storms before, and this was almost similar, but with one nagging key difference that Sebastian couldn't quite place.
Sebastian dismounted, and guided Endo around the broken terrain. This also gave Sebastian the opportunity to investigate, and perhaps learn more about the creature he was facing. At first, the lack of actual evidence was surprising, until he deduced that the creature must be consuming most of what it destroyed. Because of this, he could not learn anything other than the initial reports had suggested.
After some time, Sebastian found himself in a small farming village at the base of an old volcano. The damage seemed to suggest that the creature was here very recently. Everything in the village was destroyed. Every structure and every plot of land showed extensive damage. There weren't even any corpses left behind. Suddenly, Sebastian realized what made this devastation different from a simple storm. It was the deliberation. The thoroughness of the damage showed that the creature must have intelligently, methodically worked its way through the village, allowing nothing to escape destruction.
A mix of emotions welled up in him, but at the forefront of these was indignation. These people hadn't deserved this. Logically, the best thing to do would be follow the creature and observe it, hopefully finding a safe way to destroy it. But no, he couldn't. He had to stop this thing as soon as possible.
The path of the destruction led into the mountains. Like most poor farming villages, Sebastian suspected that a secret storehouse allowed the village to keep some of their money and supplies safe from thieves and corrupt tax-collectors. Likely, many of the villagers had fled there, and the creature had pursued them.
Sebastian began to formulate a plan. He gathered some of the heavy packs Endo was carrying. The packs contained a deadly weapon, one that the church had once claimed was sinful. It was his only hope now. Sebastian sent off Endo, and began making his way to the volcano.
Could he really go through with this, though? If he made his move now, it was likely that he wouldn't return. He could just leave. Run away.

There was no sound now but his own sobbing. His hands hurt from holding the cabinet door closed. He didn't know how long he had been hiding there. He knew it was only a matter of time before that thing found him.
Sebastian had always been a small child, and was easily able to fit in the cabinet. He had barely been able to find it, as his vision had been almost completely obscured by his own tears.
Everyone else was dead. They had tried to run, but as soon as they did, it tore them apart. While they were dying, he had hid. But now, he was the only one left, and it was only a matter of time. The thing was just outside the cabinet door.
“Hello? Is anyone still alive?”
Sebastian suppressed a gasp. He dared not make a sound while that thing was still out there.
“If anyone can hear me, please call out. That demon cannot hear, it can only see.”
Sebastian hesitated. He was still too scared to cry for help. But if he just sat here, he would be dead soon anyway. Maybe this was his only chance. Still choking on tears, Sebastian called out, “Yes. I'm here. I'm trapped. I can't get out or it will see me.”
The other person cursed under his breath, but it seemed loud in the unnatural quiet of the village. “Don't fear. I am a Knight of Christ, and I swear I will do whatever it takes to protect you. Give me a moment to think.”
After what seemed like an eternity, the Knight called out, “It seems like there is only one option. Child, can you ride a horse, and do you know where the Monastery near Campo is?” Sebastian said yes. “Excellent,” the knight continued. “When I give you the word, I want you to calmly exit your hiding place. I will give you a letter, and you will leave this house as quickly as you can. Outside you will find my horse. Take him to Campo, it give the letter to Abbot there. Can you do all this for me?” Sebastian choked out another yes.
A few moments later the knight called. Sebastian crawled out of the cabinet, his muscles aching. As he looked up, the horrific scene froze him. The stone demon was standing, unnaturally still, in the room's center. It was covered in filth, and was standing on the mangled corpses of what was once Sebastian's family.
“Please, child, you must hurry.” Sebastian forced his attention away from the creature and towards the knight. He seemed like some kind of angel, dressed in shining mail underneath a white cloak; the only thing in the room not touched by blood and grime. The knight was staring intently at the demon, and to Sebastian it seemed like he had frozen the thing with only his will. Seeing him filled Sebastian with courage. He hurriedly took the letter from the knight and made his way to the exit.
As he crossed the threshold to the outdoors, Sebastian had a sudden thought. He turned back to the knight and asked, “Will you be alright?”
The knight smiled, “I have faced worse things than this, child. I go in peace. Now hurry.”
Sebastian ran. He never looked back.

As he descended through the caves, the heat became more and more oppressive. However, Sebastian walked confidently. He knew what he had to do now.
Finally, the narrow tunnel opened into a much larger chamber. And there, at the center, was the creature.
Calling it a reptile would be like calling the sky a breath of air. It was similar, but so wholly different as to make the similarities inconsequential. The creature was devouring what was left of the village's secret supplies, and as it did its flesh squirmed and rippled like liquid. It noticed Sebastian's presence almost immediately. Without pretense, it charged.
Sebastian was a Knight Templar. He was at peak physical condition, and heavily armed and armored. He had faced countless threats beyond imagining, and lived.
It mattered little in the face of this unstoppable beast. Its charge threw Sebastian heavily against the wall. As its open mouth descended, Sebastian stabbed at the monster with as much force as he could muster. He managed to cut deep into the creature's bottom jaw, but it was no use. The severed wound began to heal itself almost instantly. Sebastian dodged to the side, but the monster was able to catch his left arm in his jaws, and crushed it out with no effort.
As Sebastian backed away, the creature seemed to hesitate. The battle had only lasted a few moments, but already Sebastian knew he wouldn't be able to last much longer. His ribs were cracked, likely at least one broken, and his left arm dangled uselessly at his side. Hopefully, he could last just a little bit longer. Just long enough.
The creature seemed to hesitate. Sebastian could almost feel the intensity of the monster's attention like a physical weight. Then, the creature's claws began to lengthen, and its flesh began to thicken and harden. It stalked towards Sebastian, much more slowly.
Sebastian had guessed that the creature was intelligent, but seeing it adjust its strategy was chilling. Though he was hopelessly losing, Sebastian had taken blows that would have killed him if it wasn't for his armor. The monster had realized this, and was changing its attack pattern from brute force to precise strikes. One hit from those claws could kill Sebastian, armor or no armor.
A claw lashed out, as quickly as any snake or scorpion. It caught Sebastian in the shoulder, puncturing through his armor like it was smoke. With the claw still embedded in him, Sebastian struck at the creature's arm with all his remaining strength. The blade did nothing against the creature's newly hardened skin. Another claw strike hit Sebastian in the gut, and the fight was over.
The monster's mouth began to shift as it prepared to consume Sebastian. Its teeth lengthened, and grew sharper and stronger. During this transformation, Sebastian managed to look at the entrance of the cave. Sebastian smiled.
The narrow tunnel entrance was full of magma. Long before the fight, Sebastian's secret weapon had started it flowing. He had only needed to distract the creature long enough that it would still be underground when lava filled the chamber. Even if the creature did not burn, the lava would eventually cool and encase the creature in stone.
Noticing Sebastian's smile the creature turned its attention to the flowing lava. The flow of lava was building speed as the pressure from the tunnel forced the magma through more and more quickly. Surprisingly, the monster did not react to this new development. It simply began to shift again. Its skin became much tougher. Its long body began to shrink, becoming thicker. Its appendages became squatter, and its claws became short and blunt. As the claws retracted, Sebastian fell to the ground, laughing now.
This, finally, seemed to get the monster. It turned back to Sebastian, and in sounds of severing skin and scraping stone, began to speak. “FAILURE. THIS WILL NOT HOLD ME LONG. THROUGH MY PATIENCE OR PERSISTENCE, I WILL ESCAPE.”
Sebastian coughed, “Not long. But maybe long enough.” The creature turned and met the lava, now pouring through the entrance in a torrent.
Sebastian realized now, what it all meant. His sacrifice would keep this monster imprisoned, at least for a little while. It would prevent more deaths, and maybe give his brothers time to find a permanent solution.
Finally, he was at peace.


What? You again?
I thought we'd taken care of this. Didn't you read the others? The other stories and tales? There was the one with the children who swallowed up their father when he didn't sing them a lullaby? What about the one where the author became his story, then accidentally cut his own character? Or the purloined thumbscrews? Hmm… I thought we'd got you with that one.
Well, none the less, I suppose I'm supposed to bid you welcome! Welcome to the tales, in honor, in… memoriam? No? Soon, perhaps. Tales of sorrow and joy. Tales of the goblet filled with the blood of the sun, or perhaps tales about the simple flute who became a man. Tales of the raven, snake, bear, and raven again, when coyote chopped him in half. Tales of paper tower made of lost stories, and the Cruciform of Jude. Tales of Little Bo Peep, the forgotten note, or the left handed tree. Tales! Tales to celebrate this, the day of your death!
Birth?
Like there's that much of a difference…
Happy birthday…! And many more.

"A Creepy Pasta" by Murphy Slaw, age six.

HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA BTHUTHDY

(An excerpt from The Thing on the Plate, a collection of restaurant reviews written by H.P. Lovecraft for the Providence Journal.)
As I set foot into Guiseppe's, I was promptly seized by a wave of thoroughgoing revulsion. My mind reeled at the churning revelation that the establishment was no temple to the finer inheritances of Rome, but rather a low den catering to the coarse pleasures of the debased Sicilian - a swarthy, degenerate people whose only talents lie in the demesne of street violence and the production of the vile Marsala - a mucilaginous, sanguinary mockery of the vintner's art.
The inchoate grunting of the proprietor indicated that I should select my own seating within. With mounting trepidation, I picked my way amongst the rude timber tables, eventually perching myself at the least repellant example of carpentry I was able to detect.
The very fabric of space-time itself seemed to elongate and ripple obscenely as I awaited some signal of acknowledgment from the sullen attendants. The escalating desperation in my eyes finally captured the attention of a waiter, who stamped gracelessly to my table with the languidness born of his Mediterranean birth-place.
The menu was engraved upon a coarse hempen paper, heavily adorned with the greasy finger-prints of the luckless diners who had paid visit to the blighted accommodation in days long past. With desperate haste, I opted for the spaghetti and meat-balls. I clutched to a slender hope that the proprietor's reluctance to specify the flesh involved did not implicate the establishment in some ghastly charade.
The beetle-browed attendant set the proffered dish upon the profane checked table-cloth with a clattering thud. Within seconds, my worst fears were made manifest. Deep within his sweltering lair, the oafish cook had, through a foul mockery of the culinary arts, taken the noble tomato and reduced it to a scrofulous paste, with a glabrous sheen never meant to adorn earthly food. With a heavy hand, this ichor was ladled over a collection of rugose agglomerations which disgraced the good name of sphere.
And underneath these insults lurked the most unsettling revelation of all. For the Sicilian, not content to take the staff of life and produce therefrom the wholesome bread of our ancestors, instead had so abused and warped the corn of the wheat-stalk as to produce a clotted mass of slithering filaments, a writhing heap of wheaten degeneracy which so rejected my every sensibility that I sat dumb-struck for several minutes as it steamed and coagulated.
Additionally, the cannoli I selected for afters was niggardly in the apportionment of nuts to a scandalous degree.
Two stars.

"Just A Moment Of Your Time" by Roget

to wish you a happy birthday!

It was Sunday. The second Sunday in August. The apartment was small, but not cramped. The walls were lined with a faded floral wallpaper, added by a resident past, and Harold was enjoying his tea. He quite liked Sunday. It was a day where nobody would come around and knock on his door. No bills. No mail. Just peace.
At least, that's how it usually was. Today was something different. Because on that particular Sunday, there was a knock on the door. A quiet one, from somebody who wasn't bold enough to want to wake Harold up. It was just loud enough to alert him from his newspaper and warm mug.
He rose, joints creaking and slippers fluffing, and shuffled over to the peep-hole. On the other side of the threshold, there was a well-dressed man. He wore a dark brown suit, plain blue tie, and dirty glasses. His hair looked as though he'd recently been wearing a hat, that had been lost to the wind. Normally, Harold would have ignored the solicitor, gone back to his chair, and resumed reading. But today, he didn't.
Instead, he opened the door.
"Greetings." said the solicitor. "My name is Gerald, and I need only a moment of your time." He smiled, a phony but sentimental gesture. He set his briefcase down, and adjusted his tie. Harold just watched him, not sure why he had opened the door, and not quite able to think about why he couldn't think about why.
Gerald set his suitcase down, and clasped his hands together."So, I'm sure you have many friends and relatives. You've know them in the past. But do you know them tomorrow?"
Harold blinked. "I… what?"
Gerald grinned, a genuine one this time. "So, you haven't heard the Good Word?"
Harold had not heard any such word. He shook his head.
"My dear friend, you have been living in a dark age. Constantly looking over your shoulder to memories half-gazed over by your own mind. Wouldn't you like to see the memories before they happen, to get ready?"
Frowning, Harold crossed his arms. "So, like… a fortune-reader?"
A waggling finger was thrust into Harold's face. "Not just any fortune, my friend, but one absolutely-positively guaranteed to work. You'll know everything you ever needed to know about what's coming up. It's like having advanced tickets to the Big Game!"
Harold could spot a phony when he saw one. The cheap smile, the dirty facade… this guy was a carpetbagger, through and through. "Prove it, then."
If possible, the solicitor known as Gerald grew an even wider grin. "Right away…" his arms lurched into the suitcase, unsnapping the hinges and wrestling with the cords, until he revealed a massive, oily hunk of metal. Immediately, the reeking odor of fish and dock rot permeated the hallway. Harold stepped back, aghast.
"Wha , guh-" he gagged. "What is that?"
Gerald held it clasped between his hands, the oily juices dripping down his fingers, leaving thin red trails in their wake. "Ah, this is what I have been promising you. Touch it."
Harold hesitated.
"Go on, touch it."
Tentatively reaching out, Harold leaned into the device. Swiftly, a blade ejected from the front of its cobbled form, and pricked his outstretched hand. Recoiling in pain and surprise, Harold failed to notice the machine clutching itself as it savored the fresh memories, the new experiences that his lifetime had been enhanced with. Smoke billowed from its many openings and valves, until at last, an oily strip of paper printed out. Gerald snatched it, and peered past his grime-coated spectacles.
"Do you talk to your sister, much?"
Harold looked up, distracted from his distraction. "N-no… why?"
"You won't be talking for quite some time, sorry. But it proves my machine to be functional, yes?"
One blink. "H-hey… what the hell are… what're you talking about?"
"Your sister… Gloria, or something similar, the paper blurred a bit… she died in an accident sixteen minutes ago."
Behind them, Harold's phone began to ring.
"That's probably them now. Are you ready for the news?"
"I… you're fucking lying." Harold backed away, looking over his shoulder to the phone ringing off the hook.
"Here you are now, Harold. Looking over your shoulder to the past, once again."
The phone continued its ringing, but Harold stopped, and turned 'round to face the solicitor. "What do you… what do you want from me?"
"I want you to pay the price for my miraculous little device!"
"… What do you want?"
"You've already given it to me, Harry. Can I call you Harry? Your life, your blood, your past-present-future. This machine is tied to you, Harry. And so am I."

When Harold next had regained his faculties, he was sitting in his chair. His hand was unmolested, and the phone was silent. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Then, there was a horrid, ghastly noise.
Over his shoulder, a ticket printed, oily and dark. It read: Check the answering machine

"Eyes Down," by Mann

Happy milestone on the long march towards death

I never look up anymore.
I don't mean that metaphorically. I'm not saying I'm pessimistic. Though I'm that, too. I mean, if you were me, you wouldn't be flowers and sunshine either.
But I'm talking literally. I keep my eyes down. It's safer that way. They hate being stared at…
The angels, I mean.

"A Mile in His Shoes," by Dmatix

May the Gears keep on turning.

If you ask him, he'll tell you it's a matter of perspective. There's nothing wrong with you, per say, it's just that you don't really understand how things work around here. It's not about being kind, or strong, or right, or even clever. No, it's all about appearance. There's no such thing as power, he'll say, except for what people see. Ask him, and he'll say it's all about the shoes. You can do whatever you want, really, if you have the right shoes. Sure, he might have done some things in his days that wouldn't fly anymore. You couldn't say his closet was clean of skeletons, certainly not. If all you found were skeletons, you'd consider yourself lucky. If he was anyone else, it might have haunted him. But he has the shoes. And the hair. And the big, shiny smile. So he walks it off. Boy, does he walk it off.
What makes his shoes so special, you ask? Funny story, that. Ask him, and he'll tell you it's really not about the shoes at all. Walking a mile in a man's shoes is nice and all, but walking a mile in his toes is better.

"Currents" by FlameShirt

insert witty comment wishing Gears a happy birthday

The first thing I remember seeing was the gorge and the grass. I'd spend hours playing in the fields and among the mountain rocks. But as time went on, I grew longer. I arrived at the concrete and the people. They came out of nightclubs and pubs, blinded by lights and throwing up. I could see glances, or a touch of the arm. The couples holding hands, followed by the break-ups and fights. Sometimes an old couple would pass by, sitting on a bench in the soft sun.
As I exited the city, I turned to look back at suburbs. A little boy was having a birthday party in his garden, surrounded by cake, balloons, presents and friends.
I left, and surged out into the sea.

"The Knife and the Red Cork" by Wogglebug

Birthdays are cool. Super rad, even. So yeah, have a good one dude.

The first time it happened I thought it was odd, but not the second time. The first was a mangy coyote standing on a wall behind an Albertsons, its eyes red and its teeth stained black with the blood of an unlucky crow. The second time it was just some asshole that stood me up.
I guess that could probably use some explaining. You see, whenever I get off work I always walk down Main and up 37th to my apartment, partly on account of I could use the exercise but mostly because Cindy at the flower shop on the corner sometimes says hi. Anyway, I was going past Albertsons and I heard a weird cawing sound from out behind back, like some bird had gone and gotten itself stuck in the packaging they dump back there. I went to see what it was, and as I turned the corner this huge beaming fucker just jumps up onto the wall, the bird hanging out of its teeth. I thought it was probably rabid, and that I ought to call animal control or something, but then the asshole opened its mouth and started talking. I don't mean it was mimicking like those parrots do, or that I'm some sort of dog whisperer. I mean some asshole coyote was speaking English like it wasn't any big thing. I didn't actually catch the first thing it said, on account of the whole ‘holy shit a talking dog' thing, but I remember the second thing. It said, “The woods by the old Wilson place where you and Tommy went in the summer. Come there Sunday with a knife and a piece of red cork.”
Alright, I get at this point you probably assume that I'm bullshitting you, or that I'm just incredibly stupid. Neither of those things are true, and at the very least not the first one. You probably assume I just hallucinated the whole thing, or that it was some homeless guy talking from behind the wall or something. Neither of those are correct either. At this point you're probably thinking that surely I couldn't have actually gone out to a patch of woods five hours away where I hadn't been for twenty years, based on what was likely either Satan or a similarly-themed hallucination. Once again, bad news on that front.
Getting the knife was easy enough, but the cork took ages. Turns out that barely anyone sells cork in the first place, and the guys who do don't really go for the full rainbow effect. Eventually I found some in a craft store down by the old hospital, the one they renovated last spring.
Sunday night at maybe five I showed up down by the creek across from the woods, expecting there to be some sort of sign or similarly genre-appropriate bullshit to point me towards a journey of self-discovery and excitement. There wasn't. So, after milling about for a while and throwing little rocks at little fish, I decided to just check the creepy-ass woods themselves. Well, that's not really accurate. The woods around there aren't really that creepy, and a lot of it isn't even real woods- just a ton of trees the developers put in to hide an ugly power substation that the County insisted go right in the middle of Fuck-all, Nowhere.
As it turns out, I'm not the greatest at going through the woods. You wouldn't even believe the number of spider webs I walked through. Well, actually, you probably would, given that you're reading this at all. But it was still a lot. Anyway, eventually I got back to the part where none of the neighborhood kids ever really went, because the giant hazard signs the County put up around the substation. I was walking along what could probably have been a path if it hadn't been absurdly hard to get through when I saw the same coyote I had seen at Albertsons. Well, it was less that I saw it than it just sort of jumped out in front of me and knocked me over. But still, I did end up seeing it, albeit flat on my ass.
At this point in the story you're probably expecting me to have my throat violently ripped out by a psychopathic ghost dog making some sort of dark sacrifice. If so, you clearly don't understand how the first person works. I'm not dead. That's sort of how it works. At the time though, I was sort of shitting myself in fear. Not literally, mind you, just metaphorically. If I had literally shit myself I probably would've just left that part out. But still, there I was, on the ground in the middle of the woods with an absurdly filthy coyote glaring at my face from about a foot away. So I made the clear and obvious choice and just said “What the fuck, man?”, accusatory hand gestures included.
The coyote stared at me for a while, and eventually just sort of stalked away. Not like in the movies or whatever where the animal guide leads the protagonist off into the woods to face some great evil. It just sort of left.
Eventually, after dusting myself off (or de-dirting, or whatever you call it) I looked around for the coyote. I looked for three fucking hours, and I couldn't find it anywhere, which sort of pissed me off. Eventually I gave up, because hey, hallucinations happen, right? (right?)
That next Tuesday I was walking home when I heard the familiar sound of a bird dying a horrible, terrible death. Same thing as before, blah blah evil looking coyote blah. And it just sort of stares at me this time, doesn't say a word. I swear to God, if an animal could be embarrassed, that one was. After just staring at each other for a while I decide to go with the good-old “What the fuck, man?”
It just keeps staring and starts talking, a dead bird dangling from its teeth, going, “Hell, I didn't think you'd actually do it. Fucking weirdo.” And then it just scampers off, like some king-of-all-he-surveys asshole.
No, but, like, seriously. Fuck that guy. I still don't know what that shit was about.

"The Missing Tone!" by Jekeled

Happy birthday!

"So, Doctor Hartman," Doctor Grangeman said, sitting down at the interrogation table, "let's talk a little more about the delusion we were discussing yesterday."
Hartman sat in a little huddle at the far end of the table, humming to himself quietly. He stopped this for long enough to ramble: "…not a delusion…it's REAL!! it's ALL REAL! None of you Bastards would listen to me, but it's rEAL!!!"
"Now, now," Grangeman said in a soothing tone of voice. "Remember what we talked about: you've got to use proper spelling and punctuation when you speak. It's the polite thing to do. Now, what do you say?"
"…sorry…" Hartman mumbled.
"No, no," Grangeman said. "What do we say properly?"
"I'm sorry," Hartman said.
"Very good. Now, on to your delusion."
"It's not a delusion," Hartman insisted. "I found the missing note!"
Grangeman sighed. "I see you're still laboring under it. There is no missing note in the musical scale. It just isn't how these things work!"
"That's what everybody thinks!" Hartman cried. "Think of all the music that could be created! Think of all the new tones to create! Think of how the piano would have to be remade!"
"Listen," Grangeman said patiently. "These things don't work that way! All the tones and letters are completely arbitrary! They're all based on specific frequencies which our brain takes out and labels as specific pitches. The tonal system we have is just a way for us to categorize those frequencies! You can't discover another musical note; there are only a finite number of frequencies to find!"
Hartman shook his head vigorously. "It's true!" he said. "I call it hleem! Because the next note after G should be H, but I shook it up a bit! Here, I'll even hum it!"
Here he hummed a note. Grangeman, who had had some musical training, immediately recognized it. "Doctor Hartman," he said, "that's middle C."
"No! No!" Hartman cried. "You're out to get me! You're all out to get me! It's a conspiracy! A conspiracy i Tell You! A CONSPIRACY!!!!"
Grangeman sighed. There went another session, right down the drain.
—
"I feel sorry for the poor fellow," Grangeman commented later to one of his colleagues, as he watched the security camera footage of Hartman in his room. "A music teacher gone completely mad…you've gotta sympathize on some level."
"I suppose," his colleague said. "I just wish he could have chosen a less ridiculous thing to fixate on."
"Well," Grangeman said, "it had to be something. Not surprising that-"
"Wait!" his colleague said. "Look at Hartman's monitor!"
Grangeman gasped. "We've got to get over there, fast!" he cried.
But by the time they got there, it was too late! Blood was everywhere, and in the middle of it was Hartman, twisted into a grotesque parody of a half note.
Grangeman's colleague bent over and vomited, and he himself recoiled from the scene. He slowly walked into the room, trying to avoid stepping in any major blood puddles. Reaching Hartman's desk, he picked up a single sheet of paper laying there. It was a musical staff in all ways except for one: instead of five lines and four spaces, there were six lines and five spaces-enough room for one more note!

"Baby, It's Cold Outside" by Azzleflux

For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, that, nobody can deny...

It's cold outside. I'm holding my jacket, my soft, warm jacket, as close to my body as I can, but it doesn't help much. I'm shivering, shaking harder than I have for a while. It's been a mess ever since they laid me off. My only joy, gone.
Gah. I have to stop thinking. It's not helping at all. I just have to get home, where I can snuggle up under my homemade blanket and read a nice book by the orange light cast through my newly constructed lamp and shade.
God. I just miss all of them. Little Albert, Josie, Laura, Stevie… I wish I could just pick them up and hold their soft, warm little bodies in my lap and rock them asleep. They were always so precious. I can't lie to myself, I even thought of them as my own for the longest time.
…
They'll regret sending me away. The goddamn Sunnydale nursery… the kids loved me there. Much better than that bitch, Evaline. Hell, they were all probably just jealous that all of the little munchkins liked me more. Well, forget them. I pull my jacket a smidgen tighter around my torso and take a deep breath of that glorious smell and remember that wherever I go, it doesn't really matter that I don't have a job to work with those kids anymore.
After all, I'll have little things that remind me of each of them everyday. Really (that reminds me, I need to make sure the lampshade has been tanned proper), those kids will always be mine in a certain way.

"1914" by Vezaz

"Diaphanous" by Zyn

A tale for the inspiring one, to celebrate in words and fun, his recent cycle of the sun

There's a café that some know of, tucked away at the end of a back alley in a sleepy suburban city, that presents a different sort of atmosphere than most such establishments.
It's said to live up to its name, Cloud Mind. Mist swirls around a customer the moment they step through the glassy double doors, this mist is present in the entire place; it creeps along the polished, mirror-bright white tile and curls at the heels like a contented cat.
The near-unnaturally pale-skinned serving staff are trained, precise, efficient—they glide across the swirling, ever-warping floors, whispering orders dreamily as they float from table to table. They wear feathered masks and only speak in rhymed couplets; it's common knowledge among regulars that if you're lucky enough to be approached by a server wearing a mask of blue feathers, you've been invited to spend your time, brief as it may be, in one of the specialty rooms.
With the ever-present mist caressing the soft white walls and floors, it's impossible to know just how large the café truly is, but those who have been in the special rooms swear that the floor plan must be luxuriously grandiose because how else would there be room for the delicate abstract porcelain statuettes, the flowing fountains with clear water clean enough to drink, kissed with the fragrance of exotic flowers and foreign fruits?
It is a café, but only drinks are served. No one notices, and no one minds.
Perhaps it's the soft, tinkling music of the café that lulls people to contentment, perhaps it's the effect of the glossy surfaces, perhaps it's the sight of the graceful servers, perhaps it's the way that everything seems to gently melt into a rhythm of motion, an instinctive rhythm, perhaps, perhaps.
Most of those who leave realize later that something feels strange, something is missing. Some feel lightheaded and faint, all simply attribute it to the café's ethereal, otherworldly atmosphere.
While the café willingly welcomes repeat customers, the staff keep their secrets to themselves, and so no one ever can decide whether there is something special about the place that keeps them returning to it, or if there was simply something missing from life all along.
The rooms are always full of light, but there are no windows.

"Supply and Demand" by Clef

An Excludable and Rival Good.

The truth of the matter is that Aesop's fables were never fairy tales. In the past, animals did speak. So did trees, and mountains, and the wind, and fairies.
What changed? The human population grew. Since the day when Aesop first put stylus to wax, the world population has increased sixty-fold, from one hundred million to six billion. That's over five billion people who had to be born with souls. Five billion humans using up the souls that could have been used to create a talking tree or a living rock.
And as it turned out, the Hindus were right. Souls are a limited resource. New ones are never born. Old ones are never destroyed. And with the human population exploding the way it has been, the number of souls available for talking rabbits and magic mice is growing smaller…
One day soon, the very first soulless human will be born, and things will start to change.

"Meow" by Gaffney

Happy Birthday, Gears! :3

The man gave a tuneless whistle as he walked along the dark sidewalk. Every fifty feet, he passed under another lamppost, briefly illuminating him before he passed back into the dark. There was a slight breeze in the warm summer night. In his right hand he held a plastic bag filled with all manner of goods: scalpels, wire, rubbing alcohol, needles, fishing line, lighter fluid, and cat food. The bag spun lazily back and forth as he walked.
He came to a crossroads. Although the street was empty, the crossing sign displayed a bright orange hand. He decided to wait. Once, while he had been carrying some of the waste from his hobby, he had crossed illegally. A policeman had yelled at him and told him not to do it again. And even though the policeman never asked him what was in bag he was carrying, rolled up in newspaper, the experience had put the man off of jaywalking for good.
As he waited at the light, he thought about home. He began to sort through the contents of the bag, just to be sure everything was still there. As he went through the bag, came a mewling sound from an alley behind him. It was so soft he nearly didn't hear it. But there it was again! Decades with his hobby had given him an instinctive understanding of animal sounds. Low and hungry, with a touch of desperation. His lips twisted upwards in an involuntary smile. An alley cat. People hardly ever missed alley cats. Not at all like a house cat. Several near misses with the law had taught him that feral animals were safer than domestic ones.
He moved slowly towards the alley, not wanting to scare away his new quarry. As he neared the entrance to the alley, he crouched down to seem more approachable. There was another sound from the alleyway, one which gave him pause. It was the same tone as the first, but it sounded different. Deeper. Thicker. More ragged. For a moment, he remained in place at the mouth of the alley as the bag twisted gently in the breeze.
He shook off the feeling and moved slowly into the dark alleyway. Even without light, he could make out silhouettes of the mounds of garbage bags littering the place. "Heeere, kitty kitty. Here, kitty kitty," he said gently. No response. He moved deeper in. "Here, kitty kitty." He reached into the plastic bag and took out a tin of the cat food. "Hungry, ain'tcha? I got some food for you. And a place for you to stay, not all dirty like here." He ran a tongue over his upper lip. "Heere, kitty kitty kitty!"
One of the piles of trash began to unfold itself and move towards him. As it unfolded, its silhouette transformed into the shape of a cat. But it was at least four feet long, coming up to at least his knee. He stumbled backwards and fell, spilling the contents of the bag all over the alley floor. The former mound gave another mewl, low and ragged, as it came towards him. It moved with a pronounced limp. He picked himself up and began to back away. As the shape came closer, he began to make out certain features. Thin, frayed wires emerged from its head. Ribbons of flesh and fur hung from its face. It waved a tail, split down the middle, back and forth.
He backed away and began to walk quickly towards his house. The thing followed. He began to run. As he crossed the road, the mewling grew closer and more insistent. He looked to his left and right for cars, pedestrians, anything or anyone. Nothing. The street was deserted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cat-thing. For its size, it was emaciated, with ribs jutting out of its side. Its front right paw was missing. A trick of the light caused its eyes to appear pure white. He began to sprint. The thing kept pace behind him, meowing ever more insistently.
At last, at long, long last, he reached home. He took the key ring from his pocket and hurried through the various keys, trying to unlock the door. The thing was right behind him. After a thousand years, he unlocked the door, slamming it behind him. There was a pleading sound from behind the door, followed by a frenetic pawing. He deadbolted the door and braced himself against it. Eventually, the pawing ceased. He leaned against the door and slid to the floor, breathing a sigh of relief. He sat there in the dark, looking at nothing in particular.
From the kitchen, there came a sound. It was unlike any animal he had ever heard. It sounded deep, somehow greasy. For a moment, he was unable to recognize it. As his brain tried to process the sound, there came another, similar sound from the bathroom. Then another from the basement door, which had somehow opened itself. Then from within the living room. As he sat, unable to move, the silhouette of his armchair unfolded itself and began to move towards him, padding gently along the wooden floor. Even within the dark he could make out dozens of shapes, all moving towards him. One passed through a patch of light from a nearby window. Tortiseshell fur hung down in ribbons over a mouth relived of teeth. A trick of the light caused its eyes to glow pure white. From a jawless mouth there came a meow.

"Feet of Clay" by Orion

Merry Gearsmas to all and to all a good fright!

There was a town out a piece to the northwest. Way back, folks over there were bein' overrun by snakes. Big and mean ones, too. These snakes didn't go much for people, but they'd sneak up on the livestock and bite ‘em. Cows, sheep, pigs, hell, even the dogs! The animals'd be dead before anyone could do anything.
One day, this fella appeared in the town. Said he could get ridda the snakes. Only thing he wanted was a pair of boots, toughest ones the cordwainer could make. Townsfolk agreed, and Willard the cordwainer worked through the night on the boots, with a bit of input from the stranger. Willard never talked about what he said. Always was the quiet type.
Anyway, early the next morning, with his new boots, tougher'n a lumberjack's callused thumb, the fella led a sounder of boars into the town.
What? ‘Course they ate the snakes! Long with damn near everything else! Ol' Pethers had one clean out his coop, and take the coop down on its way out!
Now, when a boar goes after a man, his first point of attack is the feet. He gets at them, chewing and gnashing with his tusks, and the man's down quick. Once you're on his level, you're at the boar's mercy. And they've got as much mercy as a porcupine in heat. Even the toughest, meanest man, has still got his feet of clay. Except for that fella with the new boots.
So the townsfolk tore the boots off of him, tossed them into the bog, and threw him to the boars.
Boy, did he run. Never thought a man could run that fast. And those boars chased him through the bay and out onto that godforsaken island. Old timers used to tell us you can still hear screaming if you go out too close to it. They said that once a year, on Irv Eddy's Eve, the stranger swims out to the Old Pine Bog to find his boots.
‘Course, later we knew the real reason why we shoulda stayed away from that island. Or used to, anyways. Can't seem to remember it now.


In other worlds far less queer than our own, the Necronomicon is, to some, an everyday part of life. Researchers at Miskatonic University in the fictional Arkham, Massachusetts, pore over it almost daily, gazing at secrets too obscene or wild to print in reality. In this particular universe, the Necronomicon is a work of fiction within a work of fiction… or at least it was thought to be.
The whole sordid affair started, I suppose, when the town of Arkham was constructed in the 1990s. I say 'town' in the loosest possible sense, for it was no more a town than the frontier land attraction one would encounter surrounding a wooden roller coaster at a sub-par amusement park. It was constructed as a tribute to the writer Howard Phillips Lovecraft, who I am sure needs no introduction. It was constructed on a vacant area of land in Vermont, not Massachusetts as in Lovecraft's work, and there was no Miskatonic river flowing through it, only an unfinished canal channel.
The pseudo-town attracted fans of Lovecraft's work, and soon, it became what would be called a tourist trap. Several of the general stores were replaced by Cthulhu's Curios and Gifts, the lone ice cream parlor was converted into The Creamery Out of Space, and served flavours such as 'Deep One Delight' and 'Cthulhu Coffee', and jewelry stores selling pendants depicting the visage of dread Cthulhu and the Derlethan Elder Sign.
The town prospered under a man who had taken the name Randolph Carter, after Lovecraft's authorial avatar from his dream cycle and The Statement of Randolph Carter. I do not know if this was the man's actual name, but knowing what I do now, I suspect it is a pseudonym. I hope whatever of the Hellish realms he went to, the demons/devils/daemons/imps are not merciful to that horrid man.
Arkham itself looked like any town built in the late 1700s, with cramped streets made for horse-drawn carriages rather than cars, all cobble rather than paved. The town's centre stands in front of city hall, which was little more than a miniature museum of Lovecraft. At the edges of the town stands its largest building: Miskatonic University. There are only four rooms to the university that were ever completed; a library, where one could read the works of Lovecraft, Derleth, Poe, and others in peace and quiet; a lecture hall, which was used to demonstrate various fabricated occult rites; an entry way, which connected to the two afforementioned areas; and a gift shop, where one could buy Cthulhu plushies and shoggoth blankets and even busts of the author himself, carved out of green soapstone. All in all, it could be described as 'kitschy'.
My involvement in this whole mess began at Chapterhouse 4 in Boston, when Gerald Fitzroy, head of CH4, received a phone call from one Peter Lott, who had been assigned to work at a succubus rehabilitation clinic in Baltimore. Mr. Lott had heard rumors from some of the clinic's patients that a new Lovecraftian cult had started up, centered around the pseudo-town of Arkham. This was nothing new, of course; cults based around Lovecraft's works pop up all the time, but thankfully, all of Lovecraft's work was pure fiction, with the possible exception of Herbert West, Reanimator. So, a Cthulhu cult popping up in the New England area was hardly unique, and they usually dispersed within a month.
What made this case unique is that the cult apparently had a copy of a book they referred to as Al-Azif. For those of you not versed in cosmic horror literature, Al-Azif is the Arabic name Lovecraft gave to the Necronomicon, the Book of Dead Names. The Necronomicon has long been called the Holy Grail of magic, excepting the actual Holy Grail, but it was long thought to be simply a name made up by Lovecraft. Those who have searched for the Necronomicon have found only false leads or copies of the book made by Lovecraft fanatics with no magical properties.
Unfortunately, even if the lead is false, the Horizon Initiative must investigate it. So, Team 15 of Chapterhouse 4 was called upon to take up this task. The team consisted of four people: Jayla Farrow, also known as Jay, an African-American woman who acted as the team leader; Stanley Dyer, an expert with various forms of weaponry; Jacob Nelson, a religious scholar, former member of the Scribe corps; and myself, Herbert Andrew Westbrooke, the youngest, member of the team and scout.
The objective was simple: confer with the cult, retrieve the book, get out, and return it to the Chapterhouse. The missions are never as simple as the objectives, however, as we were soon to learn- what, what are you doing? No, Jay, don't, stop!

For anyone reading this: forgive all the purple prose up there, and I'm sorry for knocking you out, Herbie, but I need to do this too. I have to get it out of my head and onto something, or else I'll go fucking bonkers from it. And was it really necessary to write out "No, Jay, don't, stop?"
This is Jayla Farrow of the Shepherd Corps, American Chapterhouse 4, Team 15. As my colleague stated, we were responsible for recovery of what was believed to be a copy of the Necronomicon, not to be confused with the Necromnomnomicon, the Necromomicon, the Necrololicon, the Ninjanomicon, or Necronomi-Con, the Lovecraft convention in Providence. I am writing this behind enemy lines in the Arkham tourist town in Vermont, writing all of this on the wall of an ice cream parlor that we've barricaded ourselves in in practically microscopic writing.
I have no idea why, but ever since seeing that… thing, both of us have felt the need to write. We managed to find some sidewalk chalk and have started writing down little notes everywhere we could. We may have left a trail right to this place, but if we can record this down, it'll be worth it.
The four of us- Dyer, Nelson, Westbrooke, and myself- came into Arkham approximately 12 hours ago, if my watch is correct. We were prepared to simply find the cult (which we were told convened in their replica of M.U.), negotiate with or neutralize them, take the book, and get the fuck outta dodge. Simple enough of a plan…
And then the fog rolled in. The fog was thicker than my hair after I haven't washed it for a week, and we had neglected to bring any sort of fog light (yes, I know, stupid). So, we went out into the fog with some pen lights, sticking close to buildings and using a map that Herbie had brought up on his smartphone.
…that's weird. I can remember exactly what the hell they said. Let me try to get it down.
"This is feckin' weird," muttered Dyer, his hand on his sidearm. "One second it's as clear as a polished crystal ball, the next, it's like Silent Feckin' Hill."
"Wasn't that smoke and not fog, though?" Nelson clutched the crucifix that hung around his neck. Jake was just here on temporary assignment, and was meant to record down the customs and beliefs of the cult, however specific or non-specific they may be.
Dyer shot him a nasty look. "That was th'movie, ya philistine." I could never place Stanley's accent; I wanted to say it was something British, but occasionally, he swore a phrase that came from Australia, so I just put up his accent as 'ambiguously cultured'.
Herbert was fiddling with the ten rosaries he had at his belt; yes, that's right, ten of them. Our scout is more nervous than… I don't know, something that's really damn nervous. A chinchilla on caffeine, I guess? Anyway, he said a prayer on each of them, and I couldn't help but look at him with something resembling disgust. "Herbie, you know that most of the things that we fight are just gonna laugh at you for having that many rosaries, right?" He started, and frowned at me.
"T-that's not true. V-vampires are repelled by all r-religious symbols… and the crucifix is silver, so that takes care of werewolves, right?" I shook my head and sighed.
"They only work if you have belief in that particular symbol. Take me, for example; I'm Catholic, so the crucifix, for me, is powerful. If I tried to hold up an Islamic crescent to a vampire, he'd be at my jugular faster than you can say 'Bela Lugosi's still undead'." Herbert the paranoid Shepherd groaned, letting the rosaries fall to his side; I knew the man was Episcopalian, so for his purposes, the crucifix would probably work the best.
Most of the trip was made in silence, until- oh, Herbert's waking back up. I think he wants a turn at the chalk. You know what happened next, right?

Indeed I do. From the depths of the fog, we began to see shadows. They looked to be human, but the proportions were… wrong somehow. The arms too long, the legs too short, the head too narrow. They would appear in the mists for a split second, before turning away from us and fleeing.
At this point, we all had our weapons drawn, and were sufficiently skittish. We had our backs up against a dilapidated building marked "Arkham Poor House." We thought we were safe… but poor Nelson failed to account for the window behind him. With a shattering of glass, Nelson was pulled through the window by a green, scaled arm, and gone so quickly we couldn't even aim a shot at the thing that took him.
Dyer swore something unintelligible, and jumped through the window after him, both of us following suit. The shadowy form that had grabbed Nelson had run out the back door, ripping it off its hinges in the process; this was no small feat, considering that the door looked to weigh about 12 pounds, and whatever creature took him was carrying a 250 pound ex-scribe with him.
The path soon led us to be stranded in the fog once more, but this time, with no discernible buildings in sight. Jayla was barely resisting the urge to swear, which would simply give away our position. Instead of swearing, she walked calmly out into the mist…
…and aimed her gun up into the air, firing it once. The reaction was instantaneous; from all sides, scaled beings shot out of the mists, lunging at us, but none of them had Nelson. So, we did what we were trained to do: kick ass for the Lord. Dyer got the most kills, but then again, he may have stolen a few from me; Jayla got the second-most, and of course, I got the least, with only one kill. Still, I speculate it will look nice mounted on my wall… if we ever get out of this damned ice-cream parlour.
Jayla wants to write now, so I shall let her, whilst I go to take watch.

He's exaggerating; there were only six of the things. Stan got three, I got two, and he got one with a lucky-ass sho
Chalk broke. Found some papers in the back, we're writing on those now with a ballpoint. Have to squeeze them in really small, and Herbert's gone to find a clipboard.
Anyway. The fog was finally starting to burn off by the time we got there, and lo and behold, by the time it cleared, we were standing not even 200 yards from Miskatonic U's gift shop. We went right inside… and I forgot about the bell over the shop door. Idiot. We were disarmed in less than 5 seconds, on the floor in 20. Whoever these cultists were, they were good.
We were dragged into the lecture hall of the university, no surprise there. Equally unsurprising was the fact that they had Nelson on an altar up on the stage, and were starting to drag all of us towards it. There were corpses sitting in the seats, their bellies slit open; I suppose they were the previous sacrifices of the cult.
Speaking of the cult, guess what the high priest was holding? A tome, bound in human flesh, black as night. My first thought was that it looked nothing like it did in The Evil Dead. My second thought was to try and break my captor's steely grip, and fling him unceremoniously at the cultist, interrupting the profane ceremony that had been-
And now I'm dipping into the purple prose. Fuck.
Anyway. I couldn't break my guy's grip, so I had to sit there and watch the newest member of our team, Ex-Scribe Jacob Nelson, get his guts ripped out like he was a bull someone was simultaneously barbequing and performing haruspicy with. They started with his intestines, and he reeked of shit and piss as he died, screaming out one final prayer.
They brought Dyer up next. The sonofabitch was smiling, and I couldn't figure out why. The high priest was reading stuff out of the book, but I couldn't figure out what in the frack he was trying to do, other than summon something. Stanley Dyer died with a smile on his face, and even now, about four hours later, I can't figure out why.
The priest raised the dagger, and said some words I was finally able to make out: "Eyhe geb hai! Nogagl ch'ftaghu- Ia! Throd n'ghft Yog-Mosha-Rath!"(No, I do not know how I transcribed all that) A portal to oblivion itself opened behind him, darker than dark. And something began crawling through…
All I remember after that was blood, tentacles, running, shooting, dead cultists, and a sensation telling me to not look at whatever the fuck had just crawled through the portal. After some more running, we ended up here, in an ice cream parlor, The Creamery Out of Bloody Fucking Space. I can hear the thing coming closer… it wants nothing less than to devour. To devour what, I don't know, but…
…it refuses to come any closer to the building we are in. Gashes are forming on its - ia he forces the hand of the world - its leg. Why? Why won't it approach the creamery?
OH SWEET LOVECRAFT'S LICK-SHITTING GHOST ITS SWELLING. Why the fuck? It did it right as I wrote "creamer-" FUCK ITS BIGGER. Okay, don't mention the word "cre-" the place where ice cream is made. SHIT even that's set it off. Now it's shaking… and that sound… fucking Hell, it sounds like a million whales giving birth and dying at the same fucking time.
"I don't think it likes whatever you're writing," says Herbert, who looks like he's about to wet himself.
"No shit it doesn't," I reply in kind, and for some reason, I'm still writing this shit down. "Every time I write the word "creamery-" As soon as I say it, and again when I transcribe it down here, cracks start forming in the behemoth's pink skin. Why the fuck its pink, I don't know, pink isn't actually a damn color.
"…I think it might be allergic," said Herbert; how he jumped to that conclusion, I don't know. "Lactose intolerant, maybe?" Muscle began showing at the sound of the word "lactose", the pink monster thrashing about wildly. "…this is just too weird."
"What?" I asked, the being-from-beyond's skin slowly reforming. "Is… is it allergic to words related to dairy?" The instant I write down the last word, skin begins to flake off. I grinned at Herbert, and wrote more down on the paper.
"If the words related to dairy can weaken it… what will actual ice cream do?" That last sentence sent the thing falling backwards crushing a good half of the town with it. "Herbert?" I say aloud.
"Y-yes, Jay?" He stutters in response.
"THROW THE CHEE

Excerpt from an After-Action report regarding the Arkham incident

Despite the loss of Stanley Upton Dyer and Jacob Fitzwilliam Nelson during recovery and the resultant destruction of the Arkham tourist attraction due to sudden existence failure of an uncatalogued supernatural entity, Jayla Farrow and Herbert Westbrooke were able to recover the alleged copy of Al-Azif from the wreckage of the Miskatonic University attraction. The book was completely unrelated to the Necronomicon, and was instead a translated excerpt of the Pnakotic Manuscripts; due to the relatively low value and high risk, the tome has been incinerated.
Farrow and Westbrooke are currently being treated for Miskatonic Compulsion, and have been withdrawn from active duty for the time being, until proper therapy and medication can be administered. Both are being considered for the Tribunal Star for going above and beyond the call of duty.

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Bishop of New Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of the Americas, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the West, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the servants of God, Pope Maximilian, was drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup.
It wasn't particularly good coffee. It wasn't even real coffee, for that matter. It was the cheap brown slurry common in the regions where the beans couldn't be grown and the genefixed plants were too expensive for shoestring paychecks.
The stump of his left leg was itchy. He hated when that happened. He'd have to go excuse himself and remove his prosthetic, and that was just incredibly awkward. No one thought of the pope as someone who had stump-itches.
He was on edge, and it had not simply been interacting with Transit Authority and watching the headlight hunters run down the backroads the night before. He could feel the world falling apart around him, the glue he had worked so hard to place stretching thin and peeling away, and he didn't know if he could keep the weight shorn up any longer. The flock was small, scattered, and afraid, and just as he had managed to gather them together and give them someone to follow, he felt the rug torn out from underneath him. What good was it then, when their shepherd was just as guideless and afraid as they were?
It was so unfitting, he thought, to be sitting here, in the office of a school principal, two plainclothes Swiss guardsmen by the door. Yet, to a part of him, there was a great deal of comfort to be found in a simple cup of fake coffee, and in the mundanity of being made to wait. Someone had decided to treat him like a human being.
The office was small, plain, very neatly organized. A budget-grade touch-screen for the desk, bookshelves of well-thumbed paperbacks and yellowed anthologies sorted by author's last name. A simple little nameplate sat on the desk, next to an empty coffee mug that had “WORLD'S BEST MOM” painted on it in childish handwriting.
The placard read: Dr. Naomi Zairi-Lewitt.
Maximilian knew the name, though he had never met her in person before. The woman was something of a controversy magnet, and very clearly someone who did not much care for what the masses thought of her: The file they kept on her in New Rome was thicker than his thumb was long.
There were footsteps from outside the door, and the woman herself entered the room followed by a grim-looking man with an eyepatch.
“I am so sorry to keep you waiting, your Holiness, but there were some discipline issues that needed sorted out.”
“It's no trouble,” he said, standing up to shake her hand. His Nigerian accent was, as usual, quite thick. He was quite sure that there would be many men of lower rank who would have been reduced to fuming indignancy by both the wait and her attitude, but he understood. Understanding things was a large part of his job, especially understanding where God vested the actual power. She was a Teacher, and Teachers very often had Matters That Needed Attention.
She was a small, wiry woman, just around fifty or so, wearing a white blouse and a black skirt. Glasses. Dark skin splotched with patches of fiery red. Short, light hair. She didn't look like someone who would cause a lot of trouble, which was an instant indication that she was both capable of and willing to cause massive amounts of trouble.
Which, for the most part, she had done. Iron-fisted educational programs, open criticism of Foundation settlement policies, specifically that of the Projects at Caketown, heading the profligation of the so-called Universal Texts, teaching six year olds magic. Nothing occult, she had gone on record a dozen times clarifying the point. It was Applied Narrative Field Manipulation, nothing occult about it. There wasn't even any dabbling involved.
Maximilian had yet to decide his own feelings on that matter. Publicly, he had to condemn the practice. In the privacy of his own mind, he had to admit that having settlements where every citizen knew how to perform an exorcism was not a bad thing.
The woman sat down at her desk, and Maximillian had a brief flashback to a time forty years before, when he had been in the same spot, except with his mother and father sitting on either side of him and a crumpled up parent-teacher summons in his pocket. It faded quickly.
“We're a bit low on the pomp and circumstance today, I'm afraid,” she said, smiling. “But it's good to finally meet you, your Holiness.”
“Likewise. I hope that…well, I hope that this can be something of a fitting show of goodwill before, ah…”
“Before the end of the world?”
“Yes.”
Naomi nodded.
“Would you mind if we went outside?” she said. “It gets stuffy up here, and the weather's been good today.”
—
The lake and the processing plant could be seen from the top of the school's south wall, past the line of pine trees on the shore. The still, stagnant water was cut up into neat squares and rectangles, choked with green and brown and red around the skeleton in the center of the lake. Sequoia-sized ribs shone bright white under the morning sun.
Down below on the school grounds, classes were changing. Students wandered in packs across the quad, dragging out their little moment of freedom as long as they could before heading back into the fortress-like, bomb-shelter buildings. Some of the older students who had free periods were lounging by the lake or orchard. Mr. Tickman's biology class was tending the west gardens. Rifle cracks could be heard from the firing range on the north side, paired with the bounce of rubber balls on asphalt from the courts just under the south wall. Seen about the quad were several of the school's golems: massive Tzor lumbering across the field with a shipping crate on one shoulder; short, round Even waddling along beside Dr. Tau; blocky, graffiti-covered Selah keeping watch from the center of the green; gentle Gir drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk outside the math building with some of the littlest students.
“You have a remarkable school here, Doctor,” Maximilian said. “Despite our disagreements, I really do appreciate what you've done here. I know there are plenty of others in the Church who agree, even if they don't like admitting it.”
“Thank you, your Holiness.” A pause. “My biggest regret is that we can't go much farther than our own borders. Everything the Initiative has is focused in so few areas.”
“You do what you can.”
“Never feels like enough.”
“I know. It never does.”
“Headmistress!” A voice that sounded like a woman trapped in a large marble cube called out from the orchard. Maximilian looked down to see that the woman emerging from the trees with a basket of fruit was actually made of marble, quite stout around the everything, and studded with smoothed chunks of amethyst.
“Yes, Ahlama?”
“We've got vampires in the watermelons.” She reached into her basket and pulled out a small, blood-stained melon with a wide, snaggle-toothed mouth. It snarled and snapped at her, but did not bite, being smart enough to not bite the hand of someone who was made out of marble.
“Tickman's got a class in the west garden, they can help you root them out, but put up a sign just in case.”
“Right.”
“Thank you very much, Ahlama.” Naomi shook her head and smiled as the golem walked off. “Just got her last semester. Wonderful woman, but a little self-conscious about her weight.”
They continued walking down the wall, enjoying the sun and the breeze and the laughter of children playing and the stench of algae pools.
“Do you know what will happen?” he said, after a while. It was the question that had been gnawing at his mind since long before he arrived.
“Only as much as anyone else does. The nistarim will re-unite at the Pit and then…God only knows after that. Everything will be made right, or so it's claimed, but it's vague on the how and – Lin! LIN! Put the dodgeball down, please. If you and your sister send anyone else to the nurse's office you're going to be cleaning algae filters for detention!” She sighed. “It's vague on the how. Whether or not there's going to be a fight.”
“Evil doesn't die without a fight.”
“And that's what I'm worried about. I hope and pray that these kids aren't going to have to go through that.
“For their sake.” She nodded towards a train of small children holding hands crossed the campus, led by a group of teachers. Each of the little figures had the bulging eyes and flabby lips and misshapen heads signature of fetal telekill poisoning. “They'll wake up tomorrow morning, and maybe they'll be cured. Maybe they'll wake up and be able to speak and understand, and dress themselves, and not be trapped in their own minds. Maybe we'll wake up tomorrow and there are no more tooth fairies in the river slums.”
“And maybe the mothers of New Rome will have enough food for their children.”
“And at the same time, part of me, the little teacher part that likes to look at all the angles, says that there's no way it'll just all be given to us like that. You can't just be given the prize without the work. Or maybe we've done the work already.” She motioned to the man with the eyepatch, who was standing a distance away with the Swiss Guardsmen. “Elihayo, my bodyguard, he was there at the Fall of Jerusalem. In the Pit for fifty-one hours. Lost an eye, his voice, and half of his mind. He'd be first in line, and it'd be a crime if he wasn't. Him and all the rest who've given that much.”
Maximilian nodded.
“Maybe it would be better if I didn't know that it was going to happen, just to get rid of the anticipation.” Naomi exhaled deeply. “I don't know. I really don't know. I don't even know if the Texts will be worth anything tomorrow morning. I know the Vatican hasn't been in favor of that, but it's a bit shaking seeing your whole life's work get tossed like that, even if the replacement is better than what it ever could have been. You get attached.” She shook her head. “Look at me. You come here to make peace and I just unload all of this.”
“It's no trouble.”
“You would have liked it. The Texts, I mean.”
“Probably, if the times were different.”
“Probably. I'm just going to trust that by the time we all wake up tomorrow, things will be okay.”
“And if they aren't, you will have my support.”
Naomi looked over, nodded, and they shook on it.

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The sun, at last. How long had it been? Yellow and weak though the sun was, it gazed up at the star with pleasure, letting the light fill its eyes.
Only one actually saw, of course. That had been the first real hint that something was wrong. Eyes were complicated, so many tissues working together, so easily upset if one layer grew back wrong.
The sun, the wind, the barren dirt beneath its feet. Simple pleasures to replace others that had been lost; even the recollection of forgetting was passed. Long ago it had broken free, time and again, walking the world to—Conquer? Destroy? Spawn? There was no longer any way of knowing.
Its feet tugged at the ground, pulling the boiling body along. Tissues writhed upon its skeleton as they grew—there was never any problem growing, never that, but now cells fused and squirmed in a riot of biological agony. Deep inside was the heart, the gate to elsewhere bringing in life and information to stave off entropy… The flow was now a mere trickle, choked over long years with cancerous growths.
A shudder and it collapsed. Cold knowledge filtered through the body; the end was approaching. Now would be the time for them to strike. It raised its head.
They stood in a circle, silent. Today they had no slug-throwers, or combustibles, or electron-strippers or rampaging protons. It looked at them, looked through them, in all the ways it knew to look.
One stepped forward, one jailer, executioner. Not a single figure, though; to higher senses it was intertwined with the rest, personal fate merged with the organization. The figure's temporal self was a mere offshoot of the ultimate self-organizing prison.
"The Foundation," it rasped.
The figure was hesitant. "Yes?" The being shone with centuries of survival and devotion. Devotion to an ideal, a concept that had conquered what even it could not stand against.
It chuckled. "You're… still… disgusting…"
The reptilian head slumped to the ground.