The last light of day filtered into the blackened room, the dingy
illumination casting odd shadows upon the walls as Elliot Rhames began what
would be his greatest ceremony. Tonight, he would finally summon his
astral protector, his own personal archangel. Tonight, he would bring
forth the shoggoth, and with it in tow, there'd be no more laughing. He
wouldn't be the weird guy at work anymore. The snickering would stop for
good. The goddamn, fucking, rotten snickering.
"We'll see how much they laugh when I have you," he muttered, caressing the implements of his trade. The book, the knife, and the cup were all it would take tonight to be forever free of the burden of loneliness, to finally shrug off the pain his entire life had been up to this point. Nothing was left now, only the ceremony and then...then...they'd all see he was no one to be toyed with.
Etched upon the dirty floor of his tiny apartment was an ancient "seal", a circle of power that would both protect him, and give him the ability to summon forth his avenger. Days of crafting it took, weeks of search for the appropriate ingredients, and years of study to discover the circle. The Ring of Hastur as it had been referred to in the moldy tome he now cradled to his chest – the Necronomicon. The only tool with which to summon his angel he truly needed, and now it was his.
Getting it from the library, or rather stealing it, had been one of the most exhilarating experiences he had ever had. Though to be honest the near-ancient attendee that single-handedly manned the massive library wouldn't have noticed had he taken the book and the shelf it sat upon. Still, it felt good to do something so dangerous, so bad, so...unlike him.
But that was all in the past now, tonight, this minute was all that really mattered. This was when the men were separated from the boys, the men who would go through with ceremony, the bloodletting, the out-and-out fear, and the boys who would stop at the reading of the fables of Lovecraft and Dunsany. The stories were one thing, this was the real deal – not just a night's sleep hung in the balance here, this was a test for his very soul. The deciding factor, his greatest victory, or the most horrible death anyone had ever imagined.
"I have to put all the shit aside, put up or shut up," he muttered and smiled weakly, "shit or get off the pot."
Yet he still hesitated, something held him back. In the back of his mind he still hardly believed the insane ramblings inside the tome, he tried to force his belief, he needed something to hold onto. If God's love wouldn't get him through this life, there had to be something that would. Even if that something was ravings of a madman, stories of monstrosities deep below the sea, claims of insanity and the sights that brought it. Fear was bad enough, but the promise of nothing to protect him was worse. Much worse. Something he could not live with.
It had to be true, why would so many people lie? If this weren't true, what else possibly could be?
"Enough!" he screamed, "Enough of this bullshit! Stop being such a fucking coward and pull it together!"
At his own mental reprimand he began sobbing softly, now kneeling within the Ring of Hastur, his tears distorting the markings upon his face.
"Why does everything have to be so fucking hard?" he queried the walls, "Why couldn't I have be born a winner? Why me? What did I ever...." His sobbing caught up to him and halted his cries. Wiping his eyes he looked down again at the book, its ugly leather cover took on a renewed glow in his eyes. Salvation. Salvation for the man who has nowhere else to turn.
"You won't let this continue...you'll show them all."
His faith emboldened he began the ceremony. The cup sat in the middle of the circle, the knife to it's left, and him knelt before them. He lifted the ornate blade and reflected on it's beauty, and vision of an ancient pillar was carved on one side of the handle, it's foundation lost in a storm of waves which made up the hilt of the knife. One the other side a grotesque face peered from the hilt waves, the face of a man with the features of a toad, in it's hands it held an obelisk with queer carvings upon it. "Father Dagon," he intoned, "Give me the strength I need to complete the ritual."
He inserted the tip of the blade into his forearm just below the elbow and slowly split the skin down to his wrist. He dropped the blade in agony, nearly falling outside the circle and ruining the ritual. Again his resolve hardened and he held his bleeding arm over the cup, filling it with his blood.
The ornately carved cup repeated the monstrous visage of the fish god, this time an unnatural smile crossed his too-wide lips, stretching out his massive mouth even further. A cold smile, always ready to accept the offerings of those brave, or foolish, enough to invoke his rites. The cup nearly filled, Elliot quickly wrapped his arm in an old shirt and began to chant to the cup, to the walls, to his gods....
"Exodi Dagon, Exodi Cthulhu, Ia! Ia! Pnugnet-es-exodi! Ia! Ia! Dagon perater, hydera constani! Exodi Shub-Niggurath! Perater-es-exodi! Ia! Ia! Cthulhu Fthagn!"
The chant continued unbroken for several minutes before he collapsed upon the floor, within the circle, spilling the cup of blood and sending the knife skittering across the floor.
-
"My mouth tastes like shit," he said groggily as he awoke from his impromptu slumber. Nearly an hour had passed since he began the ceremony, and now he sat in the dark, his floor and clothes a mess but still no ethereal guardian watching over him.
"Fucking bullshit," he spat at the book on the floor next to him, "nothing ever changes."
His eyes darted about the room, half expecting some hidden monstrosity to hear him and let itself be known. Nothing but darkness greeted his eager eyes, nothing but the banality of everyday life, nothing but the echoes of his coworkers laughter when they found out about this.
He rose and started towards the bedroom to change his clothes but stopped inches from the edge of the circle. His eyes again widened and he spun around, still expecting to see something. Anything. Still, nothing was there. "All fucking lies," he muttered, still not leaving the imagined safety of the circle. His belief wavered but his stomach still churned with fear that there was something in the darkness, his mind raced, images of the supposed monsters that came from the completion of such a spell.
"There's nothing out there, it was all a crock of bullshit. Stop being such a pussy and get on with it."
Still he stood frozen within the circle, his fear overcoming his desire to be the "tough guy", to face whatever the darkness held. "Just turn on the goddamn light."
Yeah, that was it! He tried to convince himself, just turn on the light and you'll see that there's nothing to be scared of. Would the guys at work stand scared in the middle of some stupid circle, scared of the dark? Would your father have stood scared? No goddamn way, he'd have marched to that light, turned in on, and spit at your stupid little monsters.
Slowly he edged toward the outer lines of the circle, his confidence faltering with every breath, his pride pushing him on. He blinked for what seemed to be the first time in minutes, then spun wild-eyed about the room again.
"Fuck it," he blurted and ran for the light.
The room was instantly bathed in light, killing both the darkness and his fear. The light does a lot for a man he mused and started towards his bedroom, disgustedly kicking the book and knife out of his way. Seen enough of them to do me a while he thought as he flicked on the light to his bedroom.
"Enough of that shit altogether."
His heart froze nearly as quick as his feet as he entered the bedroom, something wasn't right here, something was off. It was something subtle, one of those things you can't quite put your finger on – like a shirt casting a decidedly unnatural shadow as it hangs from a chair, or something being in the kitchen, when you're sure you left it in the other room. "I'm just spooked by that fucking book," he assured himself, "if that stuff were real, the church would have gotten rid of it all years ago." Right? Right? No, still something wrong here.
He spun again, eyes devouring everything they could, every darkened corner, every potential hiding place and ancient demon could get to. Nothing.
"What the fuck is it!" he screamed, frantically searching the apartment for anything amiss. "What is going on here!"
Then it hit him, the circle, the blood, they were skewed, like something had purposefully brushed them away. "They weren't like that a minute ago," he nearly cried. "They weren't..." Again his body heaved with sobs, not of resentment this time, but of fear.
A clicking sound began in the kitchen, then in the bathroom, then from the direction of the circle. Tick click, tick click. Over and over again, no it wasn't clicking, it was...chirping. Like some fucked up bird on a surround system. Behind him the bedroom echoed the hideous chirping sound and he spun, eyes searching for whatever was making the sound.
It grew louder, more intense, drowning out the traffic outside, the hum of the lights, even his own thoughts. Tears streamed more plentifully down his face, turning it into a parody of a minstrel show. "Just leave me alone! Please Jesus just leave me alone!"
The colors of the walls began to pulse as the chirping intensified blinding him and at the same time mesmerizing him towards them. His fears subsided as the pulsing walls called to him, drawing him nearer and nearer. His mind raced and at once was subdued by the colors. His feet slowly followed his eyes towards the wall, his mind broke free again and thought of that cereal bird.
"I hate that fucking bird," he cooed as he continued towards the wall. His arms reached out to the lights, "so beautiful..."
Still enveloped by the colors and the now sweet, melodic chirping he didn't see as the wall became something more, something worse. Pockets of mouths and eyes protruded from the wormy gray flesh of the now writhing wall. The multitudes of mouths still singing their horrible song as his arms closed in on them, the eyes dissolving and reforming as they watched his approach.
His sense lulled by the shoggoth's song, he didn't notice as his armed were devoured by the constantly growing mouths. His body was torn into by amoeba like tendrils as the beast crushed him against it's mass. His own body slipped into the writhing mass, enveloped by the terrible wall of flesh.
"So beautiful..." he cooed as the beast devoured what was left of him. Only as he died did the song stop and his horror returned in full effect. If he had lungs he would have screamed, arms he would have fought it off, legs he could have run. All he had now was his mind, which spun like a top as he watched the beast continue to swallow him, digesting him alive.
"So beautiful..." one of the many mouths cooed as what was left of Elliot Rhames slipped into it's mass.
"So....beautiful....."
"We'll see how much they laugh when I have you," he muttered, caressing the implements of his trade. The book, the knife, and the cup were all it would take tonight to be forever free of the burden of loneliness, to finally shrug off the pain his entire life had been up to this point. Nothing was left now, only the ceremony and then...then...they'd all see he was no one to be toyed with.
Etched upon the dirty floor of his tiny apartment was an ancient "seal", a circle of power that would both protect him, and give him the ability to summon forth his avenger. Days of crafting it took, weeks of search for the appropriate ingredients, and years of study to discover the circle. The Ring of Hastur as it had been referred to in the moldy tome he now cradled to his chest – the Necronomicon. The only tool with which to summon his angel he truly needed, and now it was his.
Getting it from the library, or rather stealing it, had been one of the most exhilarating experiences he had ever had. Though to be honest the near-ancient attendee that single-handedly manned the massive library wouldn't have noticed had he taken the book and the shelf it sat upon. Still, it felt good to do something so dangerous, so bad, so...unlike him.
But that was all in the past now, tonight, this minute was all that really mattered. This was when the men were separated from the boys, the men who would go through with ceremony, the bloodletting, the out-and-out fear, and the boys who would stop at the reading of the fables of Lovecraft and Dunsany. The stories were one thing, this was the real deal – not just a night's sleep hung in the balance here, this was a test for his very soul. The deciding factor, his greatest victory, or the most horrible death anyone had ever imagined.
"I have to put all the shit aside, put up or shut up," he muttered and smiled weakly, "shit or get off the pot."
Yet he still hesitated, something held him back. In the back of his mind he still hardly believed the insane ramblings inside the tome, he tried to force his belief, he needed something to hold onto. If God's love wouldn't get him through this life, there had to be something that would. Even if that something was ravings of a madman, stories of monstrosities deep below the sea, claims of insanity and the sights that brought it. Fear was bad enough, but the promise of nothing to protect him was worse. Much worse. Something he could not live with.
It had to be true, why would so many people lie? If this weren't true, what else possibly could be?
"Enough!" he screamed, "Enough of this bullshit! Stop being such a fucking coward and pull it together!"
At his own mental reprimand he began sobbing softly, now kneeling within the Ring of Hastur, his tears distorting the markings upon his face.
"Why does everything have to be so fucking hard?" he queried the walls, "Why couldn't I have be born a winner? Why me? What did I ever...." His sobbing caught up to him and halted his cries. Wiping his eyes he looked down again at the book, its ugly leather cover took on a renewed glow in his eyes. Salvation. Salvation for the man who has nowhere else to turn.
"You won't let this continue...you'll show them all."
His faith emboldened he began the ceremony. The cup sat in the middle of the circle, the knife to it's left, and him knelt before them. He lifted the ornate blade and reflected on it's beauty, and vision of an ancient pillar was carved on one side of the handle, it's foundation lost in a storm of waves which made up the hilt of the knife. One the other side a grotesque face peered from the hilt waves, the face of a man with the features of a toad, in it's hands it held an obelisk with queer carvings upon it. "Father Dagon," he intoned, "Give me the strength I need to complete the ritual."
He inserted the tip of the blade into his forearm just below the elbow and slowly split the skin down to his wrist. He dropped the blade in agony, nearly falling outside the circle and ruining the ritual. Again his resolve hardened and he held his bleeding arm over the cup, filling it with his blood.
The ornately carved cup repeated the monstrous visage of the fish god, this time an unnatural smile crossed his too-wide lips, stretching out his massive mouth even further. A cold smile, always ready to accept the offerings of those brave, or foolish, enough to invoke his rites. The cup nearly filled, Elliot quickly wrapped his arm in an old shirt and began to chant to the cup, to the walls, to his gods....
"Exodi Dagon, Exodi Cthulhu, Ia! Ia! Pnugnet-es-exodi! Ia! Ia! Dagon perater, hydera constani! Exodi Shub-Niggurath! Perater-es-exodi! Ia! Ia! Cthulhu Fthagn!"
The chant continued unbroken for several minutes before he collapsed upon the floor, within the circle, spilling the cup of blood and sending the knife skittering across the floor.
-
"My mouth tastes like shit," he said groggily as he awoke from his impromptu slumber. Nearly an hour had passed since he began the ceremony, and now he sat in the dark, his floor and clothes a mess but still no ethereal guardian watching over him.
"Fucking bullshit," he spat at the book on the floor next to him, "nothing ever changes."
His eyes darted about the room, half expecting some hidden monstrosity to hear him and let itself be known. Nothing but darkness greeted his eager eyes, nothing but the banality of everyday life, nothing but the echoes of his coworkers laughter when they found out about this.
He rose and started towards the bedroom to change his clothes but stopped inches from the edge of the circle. His eyes again widened and he spun around, still expecting to see something. Anything. Still, nothing was there. "All fucking lies," he muttered, still not leaving the imagined safety of the circle. His belief wavered but his stomach still churned with fear that there was something in the darkness, his mind raced, images of the supposed monsters that came from the completion of such a spell.
"There's nothing out there, it was all a crock of bullshit. Stop being such a pussy and get on with it."
Still he stood frozen within the circle, his fear overcoming his desire to be the "tough guy", to face whatever the darkness held. "Just turn on the goddamn light."
Yeah, that was it! He tried to convince himself, just turn on the light and you'll see that there's nothing to be scared of. Would the guys at work stand scared in the middle of some stupid circle, scared of the dark? Would your father have stood scared? No goddamn way, he'd have marched to that light, turned in on, and spit at your stupid little monsters.
Slowly he edged toward the outer lines of the circle, his confidence faltering with every breath, his pride pushing him on. He blinked for what seemed to be the first time in minutes, then spun wild-eyed about the room again.
"Fuck it," he blurted and ran for the light.
The room was instantly bathed in light, killing both the darkness and his fear. The light does a lot for a man he mused and started towards his bedroom, disgustedly kicking the book and knife out of his way. Seen enough of them to do me a while he thought as he flicked on the light to his bedroom.
"Enough of that shit altogether."
His heart froze nearly as quick as his feet as he entered the bedroom, something wasn't right here, something was off. It was something subtle, one of those things you can't quite put your finger on – like a shirt casting a decidedly unnatural shadow as it hangs from a chair, or something being in the kitchen, when you're sure you left it in the other room. "I'm just spooked by that fucking book," he assured himself, "if that stuff were real, the church would have gotten rid of it all years ago." Right? Right? No, still something wrong here.
He spun again, eyes devouring everything they could, every darkened corner, every potential hiding place and ancient demon could get to. Nothing.
"What the fuck is it!" he screamed, frantically searching the apartment for anything amiss. "What is going on here!"
Then it hit him, the circle, the blood, they were skewed, like something had purposefully brushed them away. "They weren't like that a minute ago," he nearly cried. "They weren't..." Again his body heaved with sobs, not of resentment this time, but of fear.
A clicking sound began in the kitchen, then in the bathroom, then from the direction of the circle. Tick click, tick click. Over and over again, no it wasn't clicking, it was...chirping. Like some fucked up bird on a surround system. Behind him the bedroom echoed the hideous chirping sound and he spun, eyes searching for whatever was making the sound.
It grew louder, more intense, drowning out the traffic outside, the hum of the lights, even his own thoughts. Tears streamed more plentifully down his face, turning it into a parody of a minstrel show. "Just leave me alone! Please Jesus just leave me alone!"
The colors of the walls began to pulse as the chirping intensified blinding him and at the same time mesmerizing him towards them. His fears subsided as the pulsing walls called to him, drawing him nearer and nearer. His mind raced and at once was subdued by the colors. His feet slowly followed his eyes towards the wall, his mind broke free again and thought of that cereal bird.
"I hate that fucking bird," he cooed as he continued towards the wall. His arms reached out to the lights, "so beautiful..."
Still enveloped by the colors and the now sweet, melodic chirping he didn't see as the wall became something more, something worse. Pockets of mouths and eyes protruded from the wormy gray flesh of the now writhing wall. The multitudes of mouths still singing their horrible song as his arms closed in on them, the eyes dissolving and reforming as they watched his approach.
His sense lulled by the shoggoth's song, he didn't notice as his armed were devoured by the constantly growing mouths. His body was torn into by amoeba like tendrils as the beast crushed him against it's mass. His own body slipped into the writhing mass, enveloped by the terrible wall of flesh.
"So beautiful..." he cooed as the beast devoured what was left of him. Only as he died did the song stop and his horror returned in full effect. If he had lungs he would have screamed, arms he would have fought it off, legs he could have run. All he had now was his mind, which spun like a top as he watched the beast continue to swallow him, digesting him alive.
"So beautiful..." one of the many mouths cooed as what was left of Elliot Rhames slipped into it's mass.
"So....beautiful....."