This wraps up OctoberNomicon 2019. Thank you all again for enjoying this time of year with us, and special thanks to all our contributers. As such, I announce that submissions are now open for OctoberNomicon 2020! And as always you can submit anytime for any content. Shoggoth.net is and always has been ran by you, our users.
By the time I got up close, I was sure this guy couldn’t be alive, which made no sense. He, it, was still crying. Maggots were crawling out of everywhere on its face. The flesh was rotting, and the thing smelled like an old corpse. I put a few rounds in it, and it split open like a bad melon. The thing dropped to its knees and fell over, thousands and thousands of maggots exploded all over the street. I’ll never un-see that. Civilians, still pressed up against the barrier, panicked and ran. That’s when the city really went to hell.
Sgt. Brian Carson, during debriefing by CDC officials and agents of a secret government agency.
It looked like Bill, but it was all gray and rubbery. It had this big ball in its hands, like a mushroom of some kind. Suddenly, the ball popped open and this cloud of gray powder flew everywhere. It got in my eyes, and it smelled like fungus. I, I don’t feel so good.
Wars make warriors. But wars also make warriors into beggars. From the first time humans employed organized violence to impose their will upon their fellow men, injuries received by combat were seen as badges of honor. The history of each warrior’s successes and defeats is written in their flesh. Each missing limb, each furrowed scar is a story. Some stories are triumphs, others tragedies. Warriors have always faced the prospect of being eroded, whittled away until they can ultimately no longer serve the purpose for which they were created. More warriors than not end their careers not only unable to fight, but unable to work. Those most unfortunate end up even unable to care for themselves. In earlier times such men had to rely on the alms of their family and neighbors, with nothing but their injuries to testify to their service. The discarded warrior is all too common. Even in our enlightened time, with our vigorous social security net, gravely injured warriors are discarded. Before the end of the Second World War, the loss of an eye or an arm or a leg did not force the departure of a soldier, particularly officers, from their service. Today, any physical imperfection means an almost instant departure into civilian life. Many of these warriors do not make this transition smoothly. Loss of purpose. Loss of comradeship. Loss of structure and discipline. Many veterans still crave these things long after their forced departure from their adopted tribe.
The discarded warriors seek only to escape their exile. Some through vice, some through exceeding the expectations of their peers, some go looking for a new tribe, for a new mission. Others search for meaning, looking for god’s plan written in their wounds. Most, fortunately, find no meaning, no plan, no god. I say ‘fortunately,’ because the only thing worse than screaming questions into the silent void, is the day that the void finally answers back.
Welcome! You’re just in time to witness the birth of a new horror …
As a worldly man, I thought that I understood it all. After my errors and indiscretions, I accepted my reassignment as a gentleman’s exile. When I met Lastri in the Market District and took her back to my company apartment, I wore my wedding ring and even left the photo of Lorraine and Jenny on the nightstand, just to be clear what kind of arrangement this was. When she finally stopped following me after I broke it off, I assumed that she realized there was no ticket waiting for her if and when I was finally welcomed back. Continue reading »
The Tikbalang is a tall humanoid monster with a circus strongman’s body and the hind legs and head of a horse. It haunts the jungles and mountains of the Philippines, running through the night in search of lost travelers. Once it finds someone it will use it’s shapeshifting powers to confuse and misdirect the traveler to lose their direction and wander the jungle until they collapse from exhaustion.
Just about scared the hell out of me when I saw who it was walking up the road toward us. It was the merchant, even though he was dead. Bill ran right up to him, crying. Bought the merchant all new clothes, a good meal, and a night’s stay in a fine hotel.
Bill drove him to the bus station the next day. The merchant smiled and shook his hand. I’ll be damned if Bill’s luck didn’t start to get better in just a few days.
The moral of the story, don’t fuck with the merchant.
Andrew Miller, Soldier in the struggle against Darkness, and agent of The Manchester Foundation
Those who follow the Right Hand Path see themselves as the saviors of humanity, albeit only as the “herd,” the slaves of the members of the Right Hand Path. Theirs is a belief that it is possible for humanity to find a way to exist in a universe of Great Old Ones, etc., but only through carefully choosing which Old Ones to serve.
The members have concluded that there is a distinction between Outer Gods and Elder Gods, with neither being friendly or concerned about the human race as such, but with the Elder Gods, the Right Hand Path believes they can be placated, and convinced that humans, especially the members of the Right Hand Path, are worth continued existence.
As you read this, I pray I have slipped into oblivion. No longer can I believe in a Heaven.
It is with a heavy heart I must pass onto you a terrible, yet necessary, responsibility. I, as my father before me, and his before him and so forth, have carried on, in secret and shadow, a crusade to protect humanity from destruction of body, mind and soul.