The Nightmare Called Man
Written by: Sean Harper & Michael Weiss
One can only wonder at how fragile the human mind is. I've put it to the test, forcing wonders both horrific and dreadful upon my own. And yet madness is not my master, I am it's king. My tale begins in London, no fantastic place, yet filled with the unknown monsters that dwell in the night.
My fascination began at youth, with stories of ghosts, legends, and haunted places. All these stories told by my grandfather. My parents were American, They were murdered under mysterious circumstances that neither my grandfather nor fellow family members would dare speak of. I was left to be raised in London by my eccentric grandfather, and his fantastic and wild tales. My insatiable need to push beyond the fabric of perceived human was born in his home.
I was astonished by the people in his tales; Aleister Crowley himself often visited grandfather, either for tomes, or tinctures. Grandfather was a member of the order of R'lyeh, an esoteric order of priests who worshipped 'The Olde Ones'. It was during these visits I would be allowed to assist, either learning of potions and tinctures, or the majicks used by the priesthood. It was these lessons that would cast a dark pallor upon my future, and grant me the knowledge of my parents death vile as it was, I could hardly care at that point.
At the start of my lessons I was entirely enthusiastic. Fueled by the tales of my grandfather, I wanted so much to see what he saw. To stand at the precipice of all that man called "real" and to see the facade of what man in his arrogance called "truth"; but as I grew into manhood I saw nothing but old men, wealthy, self indulgent, and grasping at humanized images of 'The Olde Ones'. I realized the ultimate human frailty, to take an entity of unlimited power, and make it human. Such a farce. These are The Olde Ones, they are above human, before human, and most of all inhuman.
With this to guard my mind I knew I could look upon the visage of the Olde Ones without torture to my mind. I chose upon becoming a priest of R'lyeh, to raise and force their visage upon mankind. So the masses would be culled, the worthy brought forth and taking their places as servants to the great deities Cthulhu and Dagon, to be controlled by Azagthoth. A utopia, with their terrible grace; cleansing the earth of the unworthy.
As I would sit and dream of such splendor, I found myself confounded by my own humanity, my own ideals of what should and should not be. My perception of what is wrong, and what is correct, good and evil, love and hate. Even the concept of time was borne of human construct. All these abstract ideals were defined by men, impotently human men. Ultimate truth lies not in humanity, but inhumanity. Human ideals serve only to corrupt truth with its countless yet predictable frailties. In order for me to engage with 'The Olde Ones' I must become as they. Who must I become in order to be inhuman? What aspects of myself must I carve from my being? What manner of beast or entity must I be, for the word "who" is a word used to imply humanity, and I reject humanity. What must I become?
These thoughts burned in my consciousness, fueling my dreams with eldritch horror. My designs started to form through in depth study, forcing myself, not to find truth. For truth is a construct, but to define fact in form. I began to see how monstrously easy it was to become not human, but not more than human. I must seek them out. I must find the 'Olde Ones' themselves. I set out in search of this land R'lyeh, where my order began. I found clues in New Zealand, as well as distrust. It seemed their God was stolen by an American named Marsh, to fulfill his greedy gamble in the port town of Innsmouth. To there I must go.
Innsmouth, Massachusetts; is an inhuman city. A city populated, but not peopled. There I will find my link to the 'Olde Ones'. It's my understanding that there are other such pockets scattered around the world, but the enclave in Massachusetts is the most accessible. I found it disquieting that my grandfathers' cult lacked the courage to seek out this vital and most significant city. Innsmouth is where I will find the children of the 'Olde Ones', and where I must make my pilgrimage. Tomorrow I will set off via steam ship to Cape Cod. Once there I shall take the railway to Newbury Port, and there I hope to find the bus. The bus owner, a Mr. Joe Sergeant, he will lead me to Innsmouth, Home to the Devils Reef!
It was raining when I arrived in Cape Cod; I took this as a good sign. In my travels I found that signs and portends were needed to understand the will of the Olde Ones. I began immediately asking questions as to where I could find the old rickety bus of Joe Sergeant. I found that many people thought I was crazy, with my English accent and air of superiority. I cannot blame them, for I am as far above them, as the Olde Ones are above me. I was able to finally meet Mr. Sergeant in the morning after my arrival. Words cannot express my joy at the look of this specimen, His forehead flattened, as well as his nose, and a scaly overlay on his skin, this must be the famed Innsmouth look. I knew I was on the right track. I knew he would be amicable to my wants and needs as a fellow childe of the Olde Ones.
Mr. Sergeant glanced at me as I boarded the bus and handed him my fare, I took a seat and looked out the window. Outside was what most of humanity considered the "real world", if only they knew of where I was going, if only humanity knew of what was secretly waiting and amassing it's forces, if humanity knew, it would be enough to rupture the fabric of society and all pretense of civility with it. Madness would over take the streets for all of what modern man believed real would shatter. I must glean a sample from these beings of Innsmouth. I must see for myself what modern men dictate should not be.
The bus pulled in around 8p.m. and I was told there would be no trips returning until morning. I told Mr. Sergeant that I would be staying in town for quite a while on business. His look attempted to tell me otherwise, I told him that there are things in this world best left alone, and that I was one of them. I checked into my room, and set to work, contacting members of the order of Dagon here in Innsmouth. I knew they were setting up an ambush here for me, so I decided to play my hand quickly. When I returned to my hotel, I made it seem like I went to bed, and had set into place shoggoth seals to prevent the room from being entered without my consent. When I awoke, I noted the whole of the city trapped in the hall by the tendril body of the shoggoth, I asked Mr. Sergeant why he didn't heed my warning, and surprisingly, he answered, "I thought you were human."
"I was. I am no longer," I looked directly into Mr. Sergeant's large fishlike eyes. He stood there, staring blankly at me, his perpetual frown gapped slightly as if to take in air or to reply. The silence dragged unbearably, and just as I was to say more about my intentions, he began to speak. "You must the Harbinger. The Deep Ones have spoken of your arrival. Retract your Shoggoth, and I will take you to them." There was a relenting in his voice, as though he was no longer speaking to a rodent. I recalled the shoggoth back into the confines if it's container. It's bubbling gelatinous from slithered and shrank into it's tiny box decorated with a five pointed star while it's tendrils and mouths released the haggard and indignant towns folk. I found these defensive shoggoth seals amongst the artifacts collected from the wreckage of the Whately house. My Grandfather and his peers could never understand the simple mechanics needed to manipulate these spectacular tools; they were far too busy worshiping every little artifact cast off by the Old Ones. I would no more worship a shoggoth than I would worship a garden rake.
3