CASE FILE: 08201980

The following report is the information gathered from the scene of the suicide of H.P Harling. He was a professor at the MiskatonicUniversity, teaching various studies in the field of Historic Symbols. Many of his colleagues called him carefree and enthusiastic about his work and highly doubted how the man could even attempt taking his own life. Many have suspected predetermined homicide, however, due to lack of evidence, the theory will not survive.

Transcript of H.P Harling's Suicide Note

I write this now, as a means to justify my own death. To hopefully shed some light on the abhorrent subject of my suicide, which is no doubt going to spread like wild-fire around the Miskatonic University. I can almost laugh, visualising their dumbstruck faces. Fake sympathy in their eyes while holding back the horror and revulsion to hear that a body was swinging from a rope, not too far down the hall. We Humans are selfish creatures like that.

Three months ago, I was studying the events that transpired at an archaeological dig in West Egypt. Apparently, a team had found the tomb of an unnamed noble and needed help deciphering the odd hieroglyphics which dotted the small burial ground. They asked a local, one that knew the nonsensical symbols like I do the basic alphabet and had him peer at the weathered, sand-stone walls.

The man only lasted a week until he reported signs of insomnia and hallucinations. Many brushed it off as some Opium he had gotten his hands on, probably purchased from one of the travelling merchants which frequented their camp. This would be a sufficient answer, if it were not for the violent outbursts that happened shortly afterward. The man would scream in eldritch, foreign tongues before trying desperately to kill himself, gnawing on his own tongue in a brutal attempt to silence his words. His third attempt was successful, managing to kill and mutilate one of the students of the University, before impaling himself on a nearby tree.

How he managed to do that on a branch ten-feet in the air was anybody's guess.

I was sent the story, along with photographs of the tomb and crime-scene by an old friend of mine, an over-seer at the dig. Her hand-writing was scrawled, a contrast to her usual slick cursive that I had seen many times previously. It detailed the gruesome events with horrifying accuracy, along with some theories of her own pertaining to the strange, arcane symbols which were carved brutally onto the victim's body.

A package of relics from the site were given to me not long afterward. It was all mostly pottery, broken into dust and clay shrapnel. Whatever depictions that could have been on the ancient plates and pans were worn away by the testament of time. The only piece that was intact, was something the local had plucked for himself, without anyone noticing. It was some sort of idol, carved from granite that was found to be plentiful in the area. A dark colour, only managing to catch little of the light that was shone upon it. I could however, make out some of the queer thing's features.

It was a perverse entanglement of feral arms, eyes and screaming, gaping mouths. The fetish was hard to fully comprehend, as while I would make measurements one day, the numbers for it would seemingly change the next. It was as if the boorish hands and hungry, greedy jaws would move each time my eyes did not meet it. It was unfathomable for my mind to even begin to understand how a rock sculpture can change so quickly. It was fascinating.

I did not tell my academic colleagues these findings. If I could somehow find it's cause, I could win awards meant only for the elite of prestigious society. I could pioneer a whole new world of science. I could be powerful beyond my current status.

We Humans are truly selfish.

The headaches started not long after these thoughts converged into my mind. They were subtle at first. If I looked too closely at the sculpture, then a small rumbling would make itself known in the back of my head. It was an ominous tone but I mostly ignored it. I gave more of my time to researching and cataloguing the various findings that I gained from the relic, which would eventually disappear completely. It seemed productive in a hilariously stunted way.

This nonsensical progress gave me hardly a nights sleep, constantly plagued by the idea of the clawing rock hidden away in my trunk. The few dreams that I did partake in were horrendous nightmares, with screeching monsters and indescribable abominations clawing at my vulnerable skin, eating my intestines with unfathomably large chomps. My neighbour actually called the campus landlord after hearing my screams, fearing a break-in.

I would hear inexplicable whispers whenever I closed my eyes, chanting in a low, unearthly hum. It repeated itself, over and over, maddeningly.

"Uerwf'ji Kearko M'a Be'ergo on va Babi Mackra!"

It would increase in volume, shouting in my ear, until only feral screeches of some sort of animal remained. It would pierce my very being, resounding and echoing in my mind like a tundra of horrific thoughts.

I did not even notice that I had started to harm myself until after the deed was done. Mad streaks of fleshy crimson would run like a lovely river down my arms, leaving only scarlet, mangled bite marks. This scared me.

What completely terrified me, was the taste. The disgusting iron that I was expecting, was replaced by a wonderful taste. A taste that even now, I am struggling to indulge myself in.

For several days, the nightmares somehow worsened, leaving me a barely coping shell of a man, mumbling the gruesome details of the disgusting fantasies and abhorrent atrocities that I had witnessed. I saw thousands of people, slain by each other. They killed out of rage. Out of greed. Indiscriminate hatred. So, very selfish...

By sword, rock or hand, they fought until there was hardly any of them to fight anymore. Then They came. They feasted upon the fresh remains of the dead and slaughtered the remaining children that were hiding. The Butchering they called it. They spoke of it all the time with such profound glee, that I restrain myself from the madness that follows their laugh.

It is getting difficult to write now. My mind is already shattering under the weight that is being thrust upon it. My arms shake from the delicious wounds that I have carved into my flesh. I can hear them now, outside, babbling with tongues I can only call insane. They mock me. They laugh with that horrible, horrible laugh.

They're at the door now. They have came for the statue. They have came for me. There is no time left. They will devour everything in due time. Nothing can be left after their feast. Only screams. Only delicious, amazing screams...

U'werko Iyugo Sa'nad la Babi!

End Transcript

From the various findings found within this note, Harling has been declared psychologically instable, post mortem. From the autopsy, we can gather that he had indeed cannibalised himself, managing to not even climb the chair to reach the noose already tied to the ceiling. Due to the many references to some sort of idol, we have taken up cause to rally a thorough investigation of Harling's room.

Update:

Other than various scribbles and notes by Harling, there is no sign of this idol. We can say with the upmost positivity that it was most likely a figment of his imagination than a real item. We have tried contacting his friend involved in archaeology, however, no response has been notified for five months.