CHURCH OF THE ADVENT
A Tale of the Cthulhu Mythos by Vyrazhi, ©2014
(AUTHOR'S HISTORICAL NOTE: This story takes place in the mid-1830's, when, in the United States, there was a significant Protestant revival movement called the "Second Great Awakening" by historians.
According to Wikipedia: "The movement began around 1790, gained momentum by 1800, and after 1820 membership rose rapidly among Baptist and Methodist congregations whose preachers led the movement. It was past its peak by the late 1840s. It has been described as a reaction against skepticism, deism, and rationalism, although why those forces became pressing enough at the time to spark revivals is not fully understood. It enrolled millions of new members in existing evangelical denominations and led to the formation of new denominations. Many converts believed that the Awakening heralded a new millennial age. The Second Great Awakening stimulated the establishment of many reform movements designed to remedy the evils of society before the anticipated Second Coming of Jesus Christ.
"People at the time talked about the Awakening; historians named the Second Great Awakening in the context of the First Great Awakening of the 1730s and '40s and of the Third Great Awakening of the late 1850s to early 1900s."
Although the Second Great Awakening is a real historical event, the Church of the Advent is fictional. It is actually a Cthulhu cult. With the Great Old One being a copyrighted creation of H.P. Lovecraft, I do not claim him as my own. All other characters are mine, as well as the Church of the Advent, which is based upon Lovecraft's Cthulhu Cult.)
(AUTHOR'S CULTURAL NOTE: The method the Church uses, called the Pattern of the Double-Bind by author Marion Stricker, ©2000, is a method many actual cults use to convince and control their members. To learn more about it and how it operates in real life, please PM me. I never quote her text word for word. I just explain and expound upon the ideas she presents in my fictional work. Thus, on with our tale…)
STAGE THE FIRST: A PROBLEM OF THE SOUL
"For where we are is Hell; and where Hell is, there must we ever be." -Christopher Marlowe
"That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons even death may die." -H.P. Lovecraft
~ 1835, During the Second Great Awakening in the 'Burned-over' district of New York ~
"Are you all right?"
I blink, not sure where I am or what I'm doing at the moment. All I know is that my eyelids itch terribly.
"Narcissa?"
"I'm sorry. The air is making me wish that I could soak both my eyes and nose in cool rainwater."
Abigail Randall, my closest friend, smiles and winces at the same time. "You're not the only one."
"Then why on earth are you in the local Garden Club?"
"I've always loved flowers. I can't help it if they make my nose sound like a freight train's whistle when I blow it!" We both chuckle softly in the muted confines of Cordelia's Tea Room. "It's a good thing my maid Ada is a patient laundress. Without her I'd have to wash my own handkerchiefs." She shudders, not daring to mention their contents out loud while we're having an afternoon snack. "Seriously, however, I suspect that there's something more wrong with you than seasonal affectations. You seem…faded, like watercolor paint with too much water in it." Art was another one of Abigail's passions; I was more partial to writing.
"I don't know, although you're right. I've been more tired than usual lately, and slow to act."
"Have you been working on that book of short stories about which you've been telling me?"
The bridge of my nose painfully pinches itself shut, and I clear it just in time to keep something inelegant from oozing out. "I have, and I haven't. No matter what I try to write, it always lacks the necessary jolt to tingle someone else's spine. Even though I'm halfway through 'The Murderer's Corpse', it's hollow: A dead man who revives and kills again? I daresay this tale has been told before, by far greater authors than I."
Abigail smirks, exposing dimples in her cheeks. "For someone with your name, you aren't very confident."
"Ah, but the original Narcissus loved only himself. I can't say I'm doing that right now." I sigh brusquely and take a sip of chamomile tea. "Perhaps I should really give up belles lettres and teach children instead."
"As a schoolmarm? You?" She nearly chokes on a mouthful of water while stifling a guffaw. "For starters, you don't have the patience for it, and have said so yourself. Secondly of all, schoolmistresses are…"
Old maids and spinsters are what Abigail's trying not to say, because I am one at thirty-four years old. To spare her further embarrassment, I pronounce these fatal words. "Plain is what I meant. You're simply stunning." She looks down at her plate and takes a crunchy bite of a hard biscuit. "I'm sorry. It's just that you're suited for greater things, although…" Her blue eyes suddenly gleam. "Conjugate perdre for me."
"Non." To take the pain away from her immediate pout, I tell her, "Je perdu almost all of that years ago." When we were at Appleton's Finishing School for Young Ladies, not so very long ago, French verbs were considered as necessary to master as the proper folding of napkins or serving of tea. If we were going to be refined ladies, and not common women, we had to make an impression that we were of the higher sort. Back then the clarity of perdre and the convoluted mazes of être and aller were my specialties. What good could they do me now? None, because only Abigail cared about them, yet she was too old for lessons.
"Narcissa." Abigail looks at me gently, pityingly, and then says, "What you have is a problem of the soul."
"Ennui? Yes, although I'm more than just bored. It's not activity that I lack; it's meaning." My golden friend, my gardenia-scented foil in the flesh, leans forward, wanting me to explain. Against my better judgment, all the bottled feelings inside my soul gush out of my mouth in the oddest way, like blackberry wine on a crisp tablecloth in the winter - out of place, out of time, and certainly out of character. Even between friends, there are certain things that friends don't and shouldn't discuss, particularly morbid matters of the heart. Nevertheless, I can't stop the torrent of words as it rages:
"Have you ever gazed at the stars and wondered what lies in the spaces between them? More than that, have you ever wondered why we were placed here, on Earth, instead of upon one of those celestial spheres? Down here we laugh; we cry; we sin and make fools of ourselves. Up there? Paradise. Peace. Down here all is noise and chaos, even on the Sabbath when everyone is to rest from their daily toil. Up there? No day of rest is needed, because all is restful. There is no need for fear and anxious bustle, biting your nails in apprehension and hoping they'll grow back in time for your cousin's debutante ball! If you were a citizen of the stars instead of the State of New York, what would your name be? A sage's. What would your destiny be, your aim in life? To spread wisdom as a god or goddess of the firmament! Work would not be drudgery; it would be bliss because it would be meaningful to all the universe. What does it matter if I finish that cursed book or not? No one will ever know I wrote it, only 'Stanley Cardwell' - a false name, like those of my characters! Is my whole life merely a dark fairy tale with an unhappy ending?"
Abigail stares, her eyes wide. It seems she couldn't be more stunned if I'd slapped her. By slow degrees her expression changes from fearful, to confused, to thoughtful, and finally resolute. She swallows.
"I'd like you to come to a meeting tonight with me, at seven o'clock."
"What kind?"
"At the new Church of the Advent on Maple Street. I know how you feel about church, put please come…"