Soot and blood? I don’t want any of that cake, or pie as the case may be. Someone here said something about cookies though…
hands pbbth the choc-chip cookies
C’mon Balance! Don’t keep us on tenterhooks!
Having made what I could of the Latin text, I returned to my labors over the other document. The practice on the simpler passages has improved my facility with the language—the dust is blown off my old knowledge, and I have a better understanding of the quirks of the author’s dialect. I had considerable success with some passages dealing with the cult’s obsession with secrecy. A curious thing, that—if the cult held this document, why would they not have destroyed it? Who placed it in the box, if not the cult, and why did they keep it secret?
Still puzzling over such questions, I returned to the section dealing with the cult’s rituals. The practices described are horrific—even the least monstrous is a match for the vilest rites I’ve read of in my studies. Even the gruesome practices of the priests of the Flayed One or the child-sacrifices of Tlaloc scarcely approach the cruelty set forth in these pages. The plodding pace of my translation kept the horror at bay for a time, but I was eventually forced to put the document aside. I could not bear to read any more.
I am not certain this cult ever truly existed. I hope it never did, or that its excesses have been exaggerated in this document. I consider myself a cynic, but the idea of such organized vileness has shaken even me. Perhaps that is why I jumped at shadows all day.
My unease remained with me when I retired for the night. I didn’t sleep well, and woke suddenly not long after midnight. I couldn’t go back to sleep, and I found myself plagued with the feeling that someone was nearby, watching me. I made a circuit, checking doors and windows. They were all secure, but I didn’t feel secure. I felt hideously vulnerable, despite the blade I carried on my rounds.
I may have mentioned in the past that I consider myself a philosophical Wiccan. By that, I mean that I have adopted the Rede and certain other aspects of Wiccan philosophy. I do not, however, actually believe in gods, goddesses, spirits, or invisible pink unicorns. I certainly do not believe in magic. As such, I felt immensely foolish at what I did next, and you may think me foolish as well. So be it; you weren’t there. I mixed a pitcher of salt water and went from door to window, drawing signs upon them to ward off intrusion, all while trying desperately to believe that it would help.
Perhaps it was a placebo effect, but as I warded the last window, the choking fear that had begun creeping over me faded. Eventually, I was able to sink back into a dreamless sleep that lasted until dawn.
Brrrrrrrrrr
That was wonderfully creepy.
I’ve got a pot of hot cocoa here and some toasted pumpkin seeds. May I have a corner of that afghan?
Hey, don’t rush the man, he’s doing his best, fer gawdsake don’t upset him now.
the bloody suspense is killing me
Not very bloody.
YET!
Did the signs begin to steam ever so slightly after you completed them? 
Yes, I’ll share. Have a cookie. They’re homemade.
Balance: is there no one you could trust to help you with this? Do you have a dog? (I’m worried about him. He’s all alone. That can’t be good).
Never heard of the salt water trick. How are you for duct tape and plastic sheeting?
Balance, have you had any more luck tracking down your friend who sent you this box? Any word on what happened to him?
:: checking watch ::
It’s way past the time that Balance usually updates us.
Think he’s ok?
:: Looks around the thread suspiciously. ::
eleanor, I have been entirely on my own in dealing with this matter, and today I am glad of that fact. It’s better that no one else has been directly involved.
I can’t tell anyone in real life about this. They would think me mad. Maybe I am, or maybe this has all just been a terrible dream. Perhaps setting forth an account will help me put my thoughts back in some semblance of order. I can only ask that you bear with me as I reconstruct the sequence of events.
It is hardly surprising that I found myself plagued by nightmares last night. I had forced myself to continue my translation, and the things I had read were enough to ruin anyone’s sleep. I started awake time and again, more uneasy with each awakening. The sense of menace was back, and repeating my warding ritual brought no comfort this time. I abandoned my useless pitcher of salt water and huddled in my bed. Sheer exhaustion dragged me back into ugly dreams.
I awoke again in deep darkness, as if a terrible storm had cut off all light to my room, but the night was still. I fumbled for the small crossbow I had left beside my bed. No toy that—it has a pull to match any recurve bow I’ve used, but with fear clawing at me, I hardly noticed that I had cocked it. A hint of corruption in the air told me that I was not alone, and I stared into the night, waiting for some hint of what was to come.
A faint hiss gave me my cue. I fired my bolt blindly, hoping it would find a mark; a solid thud marked the impact, but there was no cry of pain. The sound of something heavy thrashing about offered the guide I needed, however, and I bolted away from it and out of the room.
Some desperate instinct led me to drop the now-useless bow and snatch up my pitcher of salt water as I blundered out of the room and around the corner into my study. Perhaps I had some notion that the wards had delayed this assault, and that I could somehow use it to buy more time…or maybe it was just a handy blunt object. Regardless, my flight led to a surer weapon—the box itself. Surely this was what they had come for, and I had some dim hope of bargaining my way out of this nightmare.
Clutching the box, I staggered across the room to my fireplace. There were candles on the hearth and matches on the mantle; at least I would have light. I spun about on the hearth, pouring a circle of salt water on the floor for the sake of whatever protection it might offer. The stench of decay, stronger now, closed in about me as I struck a match for the candles.
Only inches away, just outside the circle, stood Digger.
The faint light of the match spared me none of the hideous violations inflicted upon my old friend. Deep cuts crisscrossed his flesh, driven through skin and muscle and alike. Streaks of dried blood made it all too clear that he had still been alive when the incisions were made…perhaps had even still been conscious when the first cut had been spread wide. I can only hope that he died soon after, and was spared the horror of what followed.
Threaded through the cuts, laced all through his body, were snakes. They twitched in a grotesque mockery of muscle, holding the body limply upright, as if some monstrous puppeteer were playing with it. Choking on bile, I lurched back from the squamous thing as the match guttered out. I expected any moment to feel the sting of fangs, or a blow from a dead arm, but nothing came.
I didn’t want to look upon the abomination again, but I could not bear the darkness; I struck another match. The thing that had been my friend had not moved, although dozens of scaly heads followed me as I knelt to light the candles at my feet. I was easily within their reach, but each time they struck at me, they were turned aside. Somehow, the circle was holding.
Behind Digger, I caught a glimpse of movement in the flickering shadows. Two more figures slouched clumsily through the doorways from other rooms. I quickly saw that the nearest was—or had been—the Spook. The enormous serpent that protruded from his distended mouth was pinned to his chest by my bolt; its death throes had surely driven him aside as I fled my room. Behind him, the blue glimmer of a tattered uniform told me that the hapless Lisa had been drawn into our nightmare through no fault of her own. Like Digger, they stood and waited, cutting off the exits to the room.
What were they waiting for? Even if they couldn’t cross the circle themselves, they could surely have forced me out of it. My wards had not kept them out of my home; how could my hasty circle stop them now? I steeled myself to look at Digger again, forcing myself to see only details, and not the whole of what he had become. The brighter light showed me that some of what I had taken for blood wasn’t. It was soot. It hadn’t occurred to me to ward the chimney, only the doors and windows.
I looked back into the fireplace. A shadow writhed in the ashes, a shadow that defied the candlelight. It seemed as if smoke were coiling steadily down the chimney, yet somehow there was a sense of deadly solidity to it. Even as I watched, a column rose up again and spread a hood as wide as my shoulders. My eyes darted back to the faint line of salt water on the floor, tracing it…into the fireplace. The Serpent was inside the circle, and I was doomed.
The Serpent hissed, gathering itself, and I could almost hear mocking words in its vile exhalation. My mind darted wildly over my reading…”The Serpent’s tongue speaks only old words.” “The word becomes the truth.” And I knew it was whispering of my death, or worse.
From somewhere, I felt a last, stubborn flare of defiance. For some unfathomable reason, these monsters wanted those papers intact, and I could at least deny them their prize. The box was still wedged open, and as the Serpent drew back to strike, I snatched out the papers and thrust them at the massed candles. The bone-dry pages burst into flame, and I dropped them on the hearth.
The Serpent went mad. It thrashed against the invisible walls of the circle as if racked with agony, and a stray coil slammed into me. The circle on the floor was only water to me, and that saved me, I think. Rather than being crushed, I was hurled out of the circle and across the room. The last thing I felt was the distant impact with a wall.
I awoke to a dim, gray light in my study. False dawn had come, I was alive, and I was alone. Perhaps I should have rejoiced, but I only felt a dull confusion as my eyes darted around the room. There were ashes among the spilled and guttered candles upon the hearth. The Serpent and its terrible servants were gone, as if they had never been. Even the chest that had brought this madness upon me was missing. Had I been trapped in the throes of some delirium? The idea that I had caused the havoc in my study while walking about in a fevered nightmare occurred to me.
Half in a dream, I started for my bedroom. As I passed through the doorway, I felt something underfoot. Looking down, I saw that it was the bolt I had fired into the Spook. I could account for everything else in the room, but how had the bolt come here? I remembered firing it, and there was no clear path for its flight, yet there was no sign that it had struck anything. I looked back. On the floor beside my desk sat the empty strongbox; I had overlooked it in my daze—or perhaps chosen not to see it. Flimsy evidence, perhaps, but enough to shock me out of my attempts at rationalization.
I understand now the purpose of that all-too-precise and scholarly document. It was a blueprint, a design for an instrument of vengeance that lived on long past its mad creator. Every detail was crafted for horror. If my translation had progressed further, I would no doubt found a list of enemies the cult meant to destroy. “The word becomes the truth”–but what happens when the word is then unmade? Does the truth unravel?
I hoped briefly that my actions had somehow undone the cult’s nefarious work. The evidence of my study should have told me otherwise. The university still hasn’t had any contact with Digger. The Spook’s secretary has filed a missing persons report, but the police have no leads. She was crying when I spoke to her; I didn’t know that they had been engaged. I don’t even want to think about who might be waiting for Lisa to come home.
There is nothing I can do for them. The papers are all burned to ash. The box is gone. There is no evidence to support my wild tale, even should I wish to burden the survivors with such horrors.
Yay! stands, clapping
More! more! we demand more
Edgar A Poe…eat your heart out baby, we have a new master
::applauds::
Bravo.
Well done!
<AWARDS Balance WITH A COMMEMORATIVE TROUT>
Well played Balance, well played indeed…
BRAVA!
applesauce
Excellent!
Tell us another story Unca Balance, please 
A superb job, told with skill and finesse! I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a thread so much.
Excellent! I am quite impressed. I wish to subscribe to your newsletter!